


Shelter From the Storm

by Brighid45



Series: Treatment [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third story in the Treatment series. It's House's first Christmas after leaving Mayfield. Has he been naughty or nice, and what's in store for the New Year? AU to S6 canon storyline. Angst, humor and a bit of fluff along the way. Now revised with expanded chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it’s done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.
> 
> The lyrics used in this fic are taken from Bob Dylan's song 'Shelter From the Storm', written and owned by Bob Dylan.

_November 6th_

"You _WHAT_?!"

Sarah stared at Gene in absolute shock. He did his best not to flinch. There was no doubt this was in the works from the start; he’d waited all evening for the opportunity to talk about what had happened, but had decided to postpone proceedings until after supper. He was hungry and wanted a home-cooked meal after a week of chain restaurant stodge. Selfish, but he’d never made any claim to altruism. Besides, he’d known how Sarah would react. She rarely lost her temper or became truly angry, but when she did, comparisons to violent volcanic eruptions were inevitable. _No wonder the Hawai’ians see as Pele as red-haired,_ Gene thought. With an effort he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "We gave House an ultimatum," he said again. "Either he works with you or the deal's off."

Sarah didn’t reply right away. She folded her arms; her green eyes glittered. Gene recognized the signs of rising temper and prepared for battle. "So let me get this straight," she said. "You and Will had a meeting with House—a meeting which you didn't ask me to attend, even though I'm supposedly part of the team. You then tried to force him into a protocol no one told me about." Her tone was chill. “And just how did that turn out for everyone, if I am permitted to ask?”

"You make things sound a lot worse than they are," Gene said. Sarah's eyes narrowed. _Here it comes_ , he thought, and braced himself for a full eruption.

"Things sound like exactly what they are!" she snapped. "Credit me with a little intelligence and the ability to put one and one together and get two! You can call this anything you like, but you and I both know it’s nothing less than good old goddamn blackmail!”

“It’s not—I didn’t—it’s not blackmail!” Gene knew it was pointless to protest, but he wasn’t about to just meekly put up with whatever she decided to dish out, either.

“Extortion, coercion, any other fancy name you want to give it, that’s what it comes down to! And it’s about the _worst_ thing you could do to someone who is already deeply resistant to therapy and struggling with his fears!" She practically shot sparks out of the top of her head now, her fury on full display. "How _dare_ you connive behind my back like this, Gene! Dammit, you _know_ better than this!"

"We had to do _something_ ," he said, and tried hard not to sound defensive. "Besides, he sabotaged the process—"

"Oh, we are _so_ not going there!" There was a warning note in Sarah’s voice now, along with the anger. "I do _not_ need you to defend me! And don't give me some cheesy, convenient line about sabotage," she said when he opened his mouth to reply. "At least do me the courtesy of being honest! This bullshit is about you takin’ care of your woman, isn't it? That’s what it all comes down to in the end."

"Yeah, it is. What's so wrong with that?" Gene snapped. He was angry now too, despite his attempt to remain rational.

"The last thing I need is an ex-jarhead running interference for me," Sarah said. Her voice rose in volume; she was one level down from a shout. "House did what he felt he needed to do, even if it was—what it was. He is not a typical patient--"

"He got you _fired!_ " Gene fought to keep his own voice down. " _Jesus_ , Sarah Jane! How am I supposed to let that go?"

Her glare could have powered the entire city of Princeton for a week. "In case nobody told you, it isn't up to you to let things go! What happened is between him and me!"

“No it isn’t, not when you bring your work home the way you did with him! You erased the line between professional and personal, you involved me—you can’t do that and then claim I’m stepping over that line myself! And then he deliberately _hurt_ you," Gene said. He struggled to hang onto the last shreds of his composure. "And you--you want me to stand by and let him get away with it so he can hurt you some more. Don't ask me to do that, Sarah. Just don’t."

She glared at him. "Michael Eugene Goldman," she said, and her tone was quiet now, an ominous sign, "we have talked about this before. I do not need nor want you to protect me. What you and Will did was wrong."

"Fine! It was wrong!" He heard the snarl in his voice that meant his own temper had given way. At the moment he really didn't care. "I wasn't raised to let the people I love get hurt without me doing something about it! You _know_ that! You've always known it, dammit! But you still expect me to behave as if I don’t give a shit about you!"

"There is an enormous difference between dealing with personal stuff and going after a patient for acting out!" Sarah said. Her freckles showed stark against her pale face; her fingers dug deep into her arms. "I refuse to be a part of this—this _edict_ you two handed down!"

"What do you mean?" Gene felt his chest tighten with dread.

"I'm gonna tell House the truth."

"Go right ahead, for all the good it'll do! He'll refuse to work with you," Gene said. "You know he will!"

"That’s what you think. You don’t know his mind and you don’t have the right to make decisions for him, or for me either. It has to be his choice. Force never works. _Never_." Sarah turned away. "I'm ready to rip you to shreds right now, so I'm not saying anything more."

"Go right ahead and be as fuckin’ angry as you want," Gene growled. "That makes two of us."

Without another word Sarah took a pillow off the bed and stalked out of the room. Gene watched her go. She would sleep on the couch tonight, it was always her habit when they'd had a bad fight. He knew why she did it; she needed time alone to cool down and think about things. _Fine by me_ , he thought, and hated the impotent fury he felt toward both her and her patient. He resisted the urge to slam the door after her and headed for the bathroom instead, aware he was in for a long night of 'what if' sessions in the early hours. _Damn you, House_ , he thought, and wondered how much icy silence he could endure before he apologized for doing something he knew wasn't wrong.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_I was in another lifetime, one of toil and blood,_ **

**_when blackness was a virtue, and the road was full of mud._ **

**_I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form;_ **

**" _Come in," she said, "I'll give you_**

**_shelter from the storm."_ **

_November 11th_

Greg sips his tepid coffee and looks out the window. It is a day typical of late autumn in this area. Most of the leaves have fallen, though a few trees have held out against the cold. They’ve done their best not to turn—the definition of 'losing battle' if there ever was one. The grass is still green too, in odd contrast with the bare vegetation. Weak, watery sunshine illuminates everything in an ugly light, and lends the surroundings a bleak shabbiness. Even the people who walk by his living room windows look chilled and pale, though they wear bright sweaters and hats under their thick coats. Most of the younger guys and some of the girls wear shorts, a style preference he won't begin to understand or care about; if they want to freeze their reproductive bits to look stylish, that’s their prerogative.

He spends his time with guitar in hand as he picks a few aimless chords, and waits for Sarah to arrive. She surprised him with her agreement to meet at his place, despite the inconvenience to her; they could just as easily have talked on the phone. There was no objection, no argument; she'd simply said yes. Of course he wonders what her motive is in this behavior. She has every right to tell him to go to hell; after all, he’s the one who got her fired from her position as therapist at Mayfield. Will she use this meeting to berate or guilt-trip him? Will she flip out, break down, carry on? He doesn't think so. She was too matter of fact on the phone, and that indicates to him she already has some sort of plan in mind. More than likely it’s the one her hubby hurled at him during the ill-fated ‘conference’ last week. _She's gonna try to bargain,_ he thinks even as a knock sounds at the door. He sets down the guitar and limps across the room to answer it. He takes his time; no point in a rush to disaster, it’ll arrive on its own schedule.

Sarah stands in the hallway, bundled into a well-worn black parka. She looks cold and tired, with faint shadows under her eyes. He waits for her to say something, but she is silent.

"I already gave to the widows and orphans fund," he says. "Unless you're the hooker I paid for yesterday. If so, you're late." He pretends to wince. "Oops, bad choice of words."

She says nothing, just looks at the floor. After a moment he steps aside and opens the door wider, a tacit invitation to enter. A few minutes later they sit in the living room on opposite ends of the couch. He hasn't offered her coffee or even a glass of water, but she hasn't asked for anything either. "What do you want?" he asks, and watches her closely. She sits much as he found her last week, leaned forward with her arms on her thighs, hands folded. He can't read her expression.

“I’m not here to bitch you out about what happened,” she says quietly. “What’s done is done.”

She really said that. Greg looks at her. “Yeeaaaah,” he says, to indicate his total disbelief.

“I’m upset and--and hurt, but what would be the point in trying to get revenge, or in coming after you? You did what you thought you had to do to protect yourself, and to let me know you were angry about my mistake.”

“Mistake,” he prompts when she falls silent.

“I shouldn’t have shown the journal to anyone else. I should have brought it back to you and admitted it was beyond my ability to figure out.” She makes a little gesture with her hands. “It’s—it’s hard for me to admit I’m not smart enough to do certain things. I let my own ego get in the way and hid it by saying I was trying to help you.  I’m truly sorry for that, Doctor House.” She hesitates. "I didn't have anything to do with the ultimatum Gene and Will gave you.”

"Uh _huh_ ," he says, and injects as much sarcasm into the words as possible. "Does your hubby know you're here?" He answers before she can reply. "Of course he does. I give you both credit, this is a good ploy. It would work with most patients. But not me." He sits back and raises his brows. "Show me your tits. I don't mean that metaphorically."

"It's not a ploy," she says. "I want to make my own offer."

"Oh, this will be good," he says, just to goad her. She ignores his comment.

"I would like to work with you, if you're agreeable. It's still my opinion that your best chance for a successful surgery and future pain management would be with continuing therapy. I can help you with that chance."

He can’t believe it. Whatever he thought she’d say, this isn’t it. “You can’t be for real,” he says. “Seriously, this is ridiculously over the top. I’m expected to believe you’d want to work with me after two failed attempts. I don't know why you'd want to after--" he pauses--"you know, everything."

"Because I want to. That's reason enough," Sarah says quietly.

"You are so full of shit," he says, incredulous. "I got you _fired!"_

"Nobody said there wouldn't be a few little bumps in the road." For the first time she lifts her gaze to his. The corners of her mouth turn up just a bit, and there’s a faint amusement reflected in her eyes. Caught off guard, Greg can't help but give a choke of laughter. The next thing he knows they both lose it _._ It is totally insane, but in that same crazy way it feels good. Not that he feels guilty about what happened; she deserved to be smacked down. He just wishes there hadn't been unexpected consequences from that little prank he pulled.

"What about the pirate and the kid?" Greg asks after they wind down into occasional chuckles. "They'll want evidence of results."

"Therapy doesn't work that way. It isn't a matter of putting in _x_ and getting _y_ after thirty days, or sixty, or an entire year. It's an ongoing process." She looks at her hands. "I just want to help."

" _Why?_ " Her persistence mystifies him. She no longer has to answer to anyone for his progress, so there's no reward in it for her. Most people would have walked away for good long before this; in fact quite a few people have, in the past.

"Because you deserve the chance," she says.

"No I don't," he says, surprised to find he's being honest. "You're delusional."

"I'm stubborn," she says, and smiles a little. "There's a difference, you know."

"Not by much." He cannot shake this feeling of release, of what feels like possibility—a dangerous state of mind. He has to be careful here, not let her do-gooder charisma influence him. He knows all too well where that leads. "I think you just like lost causes."

“You’re not a lost cause, unless you choose to be.” She stands and takes her coat from the back of the chair. "Let me know what you decide," she says. "Call me any time."

"Your hubby isn’t gonna like this," he points out. "I got threatened with a beat-down if I make his little piece of ass all _verklempt_."

Sarah stops at the door. When she turns around, the impassive expression is gone. She looks fierce, wounded. The pain he caused radiates out of her, her beautiful eyes gone dark. “I’m no one’s little piece of ass,” she says. "You let me worry about what Gene might do.” She turns away. “My door is always open." And with that she lets herself out of the apartment as quietly as she came in.

Greg stands there for a moment and stares at the dark green paint on the door. She hadn’t slapped at him, but now he knows the depth of the hurt he caused. It’s a sobering realization. After a time he stumps through the living room to the kitchen. He checks the coffee maker and finds the carafe is full of tar and ready to explode, since he'd left it nearly empty. On a growl of disgust he takes the pot and filter well to the sink, empties them out, sets them to soak. A quick survey of his cupboards reveals he’s out of beans, ground or otherwise, not to mention anything in the way of food. There’s no creamer or even milk in the fridge either, no eggs or bread, butter, basics of any kind—just leftover pizza and a couple of beers. He hasn’t shopped since Wilson dumped him off here last week. In fact he hasn’t really gone anywhere, except out in the hallway to get his mail a couple of days ago. He wouldn’t have even done that if the postman hadn’t left a note to warn him his box was crammed full and any further deliveries would have to be picked up at the office downtown.

He moves back into the living room, sits on the couch. With care he stretches out, pulls the cotton throw from the back and drapes it over him. It smells of Bounce and overheated fibers. He grabs the remote, turns on the tv and rolls over, to face away from the screen; it's just on for noise, some kind of company in the quiet apartment.

At the moment he's overwhelmed and not sure what to do, sensations he's all too familiar with and dislikes intensely. Part of him wants to dismiss Sarah as a self-serving hypocrite; part of him knows she's sincere, which is the equivalent of saying all UFO abductees are sincere because they really believe they've been taken into the mothership. _Doesn't mean anything,_ he thinks as sleep pulls him down.

Greg wakes a couple of hours later to hear his belly give a long, low rumble. It’s the work of a few moments to order some Indian takeout. The desire to pop some Vicodin is strong, but he pushes it away and massages his thigh. As a distraction he considers that morning’s visit while he waits. If he sets aside Sarah's pointless optimism, what the hell is in this for her? Is she taking him on just because she has to win the contest? He doesn’t get that vibe at all, but it’s still a possibility. But what’s far worse is the fact that he’s actually got a thought to accept her offer. It’s madness. And yet he really has no other choice. To continue as he is now will lead to a zero-sum result. The hallucinations have stopped, but he has no guarantee they won’t start again if he goes back to work. Nothing has changed (aside from Chase and Cameron’s marriage, a mistake if he ever saw one). If he goes back to work, plunges into the same routine with the same parameters, it’s practically a guarantee he’ll get the same result.

He thinks of the last year, the emotional turmoil and fear he’s lived in since Amber’s death—hell, before that even, since he cut Stacy loose again—and knows he will not survive another round. Even the remarkable strength of his one gift is not proof against endless loss and the resultant pain and chaos it causes. That means he has little choice but to accept Goldman’s offer of help.

A knock at the door brings him out of his thoughts. The delivery guy knows him well; there’s two six-packs of beer with the food. Greg pays him, adds a nice tip on top of the total—it’s worth it to ensure he gets brew with his order—and takes the bags and bottles to the coffee table. He sets out his feast and pushes aside all thoughts of Goldman and her visit. He doesn’t have to decide right now. Cuddy’s left messages on his voicemail and in his inbox every day, several times a day, but she doesn’t sound frantic, not yet. He’s got some time.

Greg pops a _pakora_ into his mouth, picks up the remote and opens the On Demand menu, as people pass by his window with heads bowed before the chill wind.


	3. Chapter 3

_December 15th_

Sarah wrapped the muffler around her neck and glanced once more out the kitchen window. Snow still fell, thick curtains of small flakes that showed no sign of let-up any time soon. _When the hell does it ever snow like this in December in New Jersey?_ she thought, and sighed.

"The driveway isn't getting cleared with me standing here," she said aloud. "Cheap therapy, Corbett. Get busy. You can come back in any time you want."

 _That's if you aren't buried ten feet deep by the time you get to the bottom of the drive,_ that little voice deep inside said _._

"Oh, shut up," she muttered, and opened the door.

It was every bit as nasty as she'd expected. She flung shovelsful across the yard, moved step by step down the drive and shivered as flakes clung to her eyelashes, melted against her skin. From somewhere further along the street she heard children as they played, their shouts muffled by the snowfall. It sounded like they enjoyed the chance to be outside, in the cold.

 _Can’t imagine anyone having fun in this weather._ She leaned on the shovel to catch her breath. _Holy crow, that sounds so pathetic. Maybe if you grow up in a house with reliable heat and hot water, things are different . . . and that sounds even more pathetic. Stop whining and get back to work._

An hour later one side was more or less cleared and she was so cold she couldn't feel her hands or feet any more. Her teeth chattered as she propped the shovel by the door and went inside. _I'll come in and get warmed up, then go back out and do the other half,_ she told herself. The thought made her stomach clench, but she pushed the fear away and began to shuck off gear, to leave her snow-crusted boots on the big mat in the mudroom. She tried to hurry because she had to pee. Cold always did that to her, and it was big trouble when you had a bladder the size of a dime anyway. A vivid memory flashed into her mind's eye--crouched on the stoop with tears frozen on her eyelashes, filled with the strong urge to urinate as she waited for her grandmother to come home from work and let her in.

 _You are throwing one major pity party for yourself today,_ she thought as she peeled off her gloves and insulators. _Knock it off._

She was about to remove her coat when the phone rang. Sarah hurried into the kitchen and checked the caller ID. She stared at it in shock as the fifth ring sounded and Gene's cheerful voice filled the silent kitchen.

"Please leave a message, thanks and enjoy the holidays!" The beep sounded.

"I _hate_ voicemail. Pick up. I know you're there. Where the hell else would you be, you're unemployed."

Without thinking she reached out and took the receiver. "G-G-Greg?"

“Congratulations, you got it right first try.” He paused. "You’re stuttering."

"J-just came in from sh-shoveling the d-driveway," she said, and winced at the inanity of her reply. She shrugged off her coat and shivered.

"How long were you outside?" Greg sounded annoyed.

"I don't know—an hour, I g-guess," she said, and glanced at the clock.

"You're in the first stage of hypothermia, you moron!" he shouted. Sarah jumped.

"Don't yell at m-me!" she snapped. Without warning tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away with cold fingers. "I'm—I'm all right. Just a little ch-chilled."

"Get the comforter off your bed and wrap up in it, and go to the warmest room in the house." Greg's voice grew gentler. "Just do it."

"I—I h-have to pee first," she said, and sniffled. Greg exhaled slowly.

"Jesus _._ _Fine_. Pee first, _then_ get the comforter."

Once she was bundled in a thick quilt and curled up on the couch she dared to ask, "Why are you calling me?"

"My super-duper extra-special sixth sense told me you were in danger," Greg said.

"Come on," Sarah said. "What do you want?"

"I . . ." He stopped, went on. "I want to know if your offer still stands." He sounded odd—diffident. _No, that's not it—he's embarrassed_ , Sarah thought.

"What happened?" she asked quietly. There was a long silence.

"Wilson didn't tell you," he said at last.

"Obviously not, or I wouldn't have asked," she said, and knew what he was about to say. "You had a relapse."

"I fucked up." There was a bitter edge to his words now.

"What _happened_?" 

"It doesn’t matter. You’ll have to trust me. Ironic, but there we are."

"I think you panicked," she said. Another long silence.

"I didn't panic.”

"So what caused the relapse?"

He made an impatient sound. "It doesn’t make any difference."

"I need to know," she said, and kept her voice calm. "Either you tell me or this conversation is done."

"Idle threat," Greg said. "You won't—"

Sarah hung up. The phone rang again thirty seconds later. She answered.

"Will you tell me what happened?"

"See, this is why I hate shrinks," Greg said. "You're all _yentas_ by profession."

"Greg," Sarah said. "Tell me. I won't ask again."

"It's not important," Greg said. Sarah waited. "Of course I get why you really want to know, though. You've finally realized the blackmail potential of—"

She ended the call. When it rang again, she let it go to voicemail. It rang once more after about fifteen minutes. She didn't even bother to check the caller ID before she answered. "Hey, Jim."

"He really does need you," Jim said. He sounded resigned. For a moment Sarah felt a little sympathy for him, but set the emotion aside. Jim was well aware of his obsessive-compulsive need to fix people, and the havoc it wreaked in his personal life.

"He says he relapsed," she said. "He won't tell me more than that."

"He found a stash of Vicodin at his old place," Jim said. "He took a dozen and ended up in the ER getting his stomach pumped. After he’d recovered, he walked out AMA and . . . and decided to take you up on your offer."

 _Uh huh,_ Sarah thought. _Someone got an ultimatum from the boss and doesn’t want to go back to work because he knows he can’t handle it, not yet._ "Was it all Cuddy?" she asked out loud. "Or did you toss a guilt trip his way?"

"I wasn't there, how could I possibly influence him?" Jim said, clearly exasperated. Well, that answered half the question. Cuddy had attempted to lower the boom.

"I have to ask," Sarah said. "House feels like his back is to the wall. He'll fight even harder against help than he would otherwise."

"You're surprised after the way your husband treated him?" Jim asked with some sarcasm. "He and House almost went _mano a mano_ right there in the diner."

Sarah closed her eyes. "That's an exaggeration and you know it. Gene was only trying to protect me," she said. "As misguided as his actions were, they're understandable. But understanding his motives doesn't mean I condone them. And you can’t blame what Greg’s doing solely on Gene’s actions, no way. Going back to work plays a big part in this, the biggest part actually. That means I have to work with Greg on my own terms."

"He sees all of this as blackmail," Jim said.

"It _isn't_ blackmail, dammit!" Sarah suppressed a wild surge of frustration. "It's his best chance to return to his job and to make sure surgery and pain management work, but he doesn’t want to admit things have come to this point. So he’s trying to gain control of the process as a measure of resistance." She took a breath and gathered her tattered composure. "Jim, I love you dearly and I know you're trying to help, but this discussion is over. Either Greg agrees to work with me or he doesn't, it's completely up to him. I wish I could say I didn't care either way . . ." Tears filled her eyes. She grabbed a tissue and swiped at them, and hated her stupid propensity for emotional outbursts at the worst moment.

"You're crying, aren't you?" Jim said, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Sare. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't." She wiped her nose. "I've been emotionally labile lately."

He chuckled, as she knew he would. "Only you would actually use the term labile," he said. "Always sounds like a dirty word." He was quiet for a moment. "How's it going with the job search?"

"I haven't been looking," she said.

"You can't get discouraged. You're a good psychologist. There are plenty of people who would benefit from your skill and experience."

"I'm taking time to think about what I want to do next." Sarah tried to make her tone decisive. Instead she sounded uncertain.

"You're afraid you've failed," Jim said gently. "You always were a perfection freak."

"Jim, I've been working full time since I was fourteen. Taking a few months off isn't a crime." She crumpled the tissue in her hand. "It's kinda nice being a housewife."

"Now who's resisting?" 

"Shut up," she said, and fought the smile. "That's a rotten trick, turning my own words against me."

Jim laughed. "Look up 'resistance' in the dictionary and there's your picture."

"Not true!" She sat up. "Stop trying to make me feel better, I still have half a driveway to shovel."

"That's the price you pay for unemployment," Jim said. She could hear the smile in his voice. "All right. I'll let House know what you said and he can take it from there, okay?"

"Okay," she said. "You're a good friend, Jim. I don't think enough people tell you that."

"You just did. Make sure you wear your thermals when you go back out. I don't want to hear about you on the evening news. You know, 'New Jersey housewife popsicle discovered in snowdrift, details at eleven'."

Sarah laughed. "Love you too," she said.

Fifteen minutes later she was ready to take on the rest of the driveway. It still came down in thick sheets; flakes swirled in endless spirals past the window. She tugged her stocking cap over her ears and grasped the doorknob. _Finish this and you can have a hot shower and a cup of cocoa with Bailey's,_ she told herself, and went out into the storm, determined to complete her work.

An hour later, as she sat in her kitchen and stirred her cocoa, the phone rang. She checked the caller ID, picked up the receiver and said nothing.

“Goldman.” She sipped her drink, savored the blend of chocolate, whiskey and cream. “Wilson says you talked to him. You . . . you didn’t call me back.” He waited. When Sarah remained silent, he sighed. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I’m waiting to hear what _you_ want to do,” Sarah said, and kept her voice cool, impersonal.

“God, you sound like a school counselor. Bet you saw yours a lot when you were a kid.” She didn’t answer him. “Oh, come on, admit it. You were in that office so much you found your role model. What an inspiring story! You should send it in to _Crossroads_. They’d love it.”

“Yes or no, Doctor House. If you answer with anything other than one of those two words, we’re done here. As in d-o-n-e. For good. I do not possess infinite patience, and you’ve used up my supply at the moment. Now tell me what you want.”

The silence on his side was much longer. Sarah felt her heart slowly close up. So this was just another test after all, another way to slap at her for trying to help—

“Yes.” He said it so softly she almost didn’t catch it. “I said yes,” he said again, more roughly this time. “If you expect me to beg—“

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t.” She set her cup on the table. “Thank you. I’d—I’d like to work with you too.”

“’kay,” he said, and the wariness in his voice saddened her.

"You understand what that means," she said.

"I'm not an idiot. Yes, I understand. Sessions with you, then surgery."

"All I can offer is some help," Sarah said quietly. "There are no guarantees you'll be accepted as a candidate for surgery. It'll depend on how willing you are to work on things."

"I can't promise that. Don’t ask," he snapped.

"I don't need a promise. What I need is for you to do your best, and when you aren't able to do that, try anyway." She paused. "Psychotherapy saved my life because I decided it was worth the effort. It could help you too."

"It all comes back to people wanting to fix me," Greg said. There was considerable pain in his words. "You can say that isn't what you want to do, but it's a lie."

Another silence descended. "I'd like for you to learn how to get out of your own way," Sarah said. "That's all."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You think you have only one true talent—an ability to solve complex puzzles. So you apply that ability to everything within your sphere of influence. It's become an obsession, this need to pick people and situations apart, and you use any means to do so, the more outrageous the better. Difficult situations get the same treatment. As a consequence you destroy friendships and push away anyone who loves you because they're afraid of you, of what you might learn about them, how you might talk about things people don’t want to discuss in a tough circumstance. You alienate coworkers and patients for the same reason. Because people tend to react to your behavior with anger or frustration, you've decided that you are unlovable and unlikeable, something you've been told in various ways since childhood anyway, so you might as well continue to provoke others into hating you immediately and prove your conclusions are right."

Greg didn’t speak for a few moments. "We're back to that again," he said at last.

"And we'll keep coming back to it until you decide it's something you need to deal with. So, do you still want to work with me?"

"I don't have a choice.”

"Yes you do. You just don’t know it yet. End of session.”

"Where do I send the bill?" Greg said.

"We'll worry about that later." Sarah kept her voice light, though it hurt to think about what she’d lost. "I'll be in touch in a day or two and get things set up. I’d—I’d like you to consider coming up to the country house over the holidays. Just think about it," she said quickly when she heard him groan. “We’ll talk later. Thanks,” she said again.

“You say that now.” And he was gone.

It wasn’t until much later, as she lay in bed glad for the warmth around her, that she thought _he thinks he’ll fail_. He would resist every step of the way because of that conviction. For a moment she quailed at the size of the obstacle ahead.

“Sufficient unto the day,” she said finally—a favorite quote of her grandmother’s, and let sleep carry her away.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**_Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved._ **

**_Everything up to that point had been left unresolved._ **

**_Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm . . ._ **

**_"Come in," she said,_ **

**_"I'll give you shelter from the storm"._ **

_December 21st_

"This is a really stupid idea," Greg says. He peers out the window and catches a glimpse of snowdrifts along the road, bright against the black night. They'd gotten barely three inches of snow in New Jersey. This looks like three feet at least, and the dark clouds they glimpsed earlier before the sun set indicates more on the way.

"You keep saying that like it just occurred to you," Wilson says. "It's a little late to back out now." He glances at the GPS map. "Weren't we supposed to turn right at that old house?"

"Another mile," Greg says. He's not about to pull a fast one; he doesn't want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere with a massive storm apparently about to take a dump on the southern Adirondacks in the next twenty-four hours. "This is idiotic. We could be at your place, ordering Indian and watching classic porn. I just bought a pristine copy of 'Debbie Does Dallas' off Ebay."

"Oh, I don't know," Wilson says. "You’re supposed to show up for some ridiculous activity that some might consider the official start of your therapy work with Sarah. I think she also mentioned an obscure festival called Christmas. Never heard of it, myself. I have my suspicions that she and Gene would like to include us in some holiday celebrations, god knows why. I never figured them for flagellants, but everyone has their hobbies."

"An observant Jew like you, ignoring Hanukkah," Greg says. "I'm shocked. Your mother would be too, no doubt."

"My mother would be more likely to ask me for my recipe for pork tenderloin," Wilson says. "I hate these damn back roads, especially when it’s pitch dark. Isn't that turn coming up yet?"

Fifteen minutes later they pull into the driveway, down a long lane that leads to the house. Snow is piled high on either side. Some of it’s been moved by a snow blower, but most of the mountains bear shovel marks, and indeed, one peak has just such an implement stuck right in it. Greg wonders where they'll put anything that falls between now and the end of the week. _And they want to retire here. If that isn't grounds for insanity I don't know what is._

At last they reach the house. There are small hurricane lamps in each window; their mellow light shines out onto the white expanse of snow, and a wreath of real greens and pine cones hangs on the door. It looks home-like. Not that he ever lived anyplace like this. Military housing was usually the very definition of utilitarian, meant for temporary and almost anonymous occupation.

Wilson parks the car, turns off the lights and sets the brake. "Before we go in, I have something to say to you."

"Oh goody," Greg mutters.

"Sarah is one of the best at what she does. Give her a chance." Wilson removes the key from the ignition and flips up the collar of his coat.

"That's it. No big lecture, no scolding, no warnings about bad behavior." Greg peers at the other man. "You're not the real James, you're a pod person. Admit it."

"You take the bag with the presents, I'll grab the cases." Wilson pops the latch and is gone. Greg doesn't follow him. Apprehension has replaced mockery. Now that they've arrived, he doesn't want to do this. As Wilson heads to the front door, Greg sits in the cold darkness and thinks about his situation. He is tired in so many ways he's lost count; tired of the constant pain, the boredom and inescapable monotony of his days without work to keep him busy and numb. He is also sick of himself. The same thoughts run in his mind all the time and drive him to despair more often than anyone knows. He loathes his misery and anger, but they are constant companions; the more he tries to outrun or ignore them, the more persistent and clamorous they become. And they remind him of how utterly worthless he is to anyone, even to himself. He’s a canker on the backside of life, potentially dangerous, and useless as well.

And now it's Christmas, the one time of year he truly detests. The holidays already hold quite a few less-than-stellar memories, to say the least. An addition to their number won't help matters. And on top of all that, he's pretty sure that sometime during this weekend, the pirate will attempt to beat him senseless. But he is here now, and he agreed to work with Sarah. There is nothing for it but to go inside, or stay out here and turn into a giant frozen lump of shit.

He expects to find a big tree loaded with ornaments in the living room and every surface crammed with decorations. Instead the interior looks much as it did in October, with the exception of the lamps in the windows and some evergreen boughs and a few old-fashioned ornaments placed on the mantelpiece. There are more logs stacked by the hearth though, and a nice fire to add warmth to the big room. The smell of newly baked bread hangs in the air, along with the sweet tang of wood smoke and fresh pine.

Sarah waits for them by the door. She wears the cable-knit teal sweater he remembers from that last day in her redecorated office at Mayfield, paired with jeans and thick sheepskin slippers. Her curly hair is free of restraint for once; she's let it grow out a little so that it reaches just past her shoulders. She looks thinner, the bones of her face more sharply defined, but she seems genuinely happy. She hugs Jim and smiles warmly at Greg but doesn't touch him—a consideration he is glad she still observes.

"It's such a long drive from Princeton in cold weather. You both must be frozen," she says. "We can put things away later. How about some sandwiches and soup? I just took a loaf from the oven."

The kitchen is warm and fragrant. A pot of vegetable soup simmers on the stove and a loaf of bread sits on a cutting board, along with an array of sandwich ingredients. Greg makes roast beef layered thick with horseradish, with a cup of hot soup on the side. Soon he and Wilson sit down to stow away large quantities of good home-cooking.

Greg watches his friend as he chats with Sarah. She sips some tea, her hands clasped around the mug—to keep them warm, he realizes. There is a subtle change in Wilson when he talks with Sarah, an openness he rarely shows anyone else. It's easy to see now they were once lovers; they are affectionate but don’t cross the line into intimacy. Greg envies them. He thinks of Cuddy, of the pain and sadness in her eyes when she left him after her hospital visit, then pushes the memory away.

"Your hubby's around somewhere," he says to Sarah after he finishes the last of his sandwich. He is full now and sleepy as the long day catches up with him at last, but his discomfort hasn't diminished. He rubs his thigh to try to to smooth away the deep, steady pulse of pain that's always there.

"He had a consult in Nebraska, so he's spending a day with a couple of his brothers before he comes home." Sarah collects the soup bowls. "He should be here by late morning tomorrow, just ahead of the next storm." She glances at him. "Do you need something for pain?" It is a quiet question, no implied judgments involved, only concern.

"I'm fine. You and Goldman haven't made up yet." He knows he should leave it alone, but that's not what he does.

"We're working on it." She smiles at him as she takes the bowls to the sink. "When both parties are recalcitrant it takes time, but we'll reach _rapprochement_ eventually."

"Five dollar words," Greg says. "Things must really be bad."

"Nope." Sarah puts the bowls to soak. "Neither of us threw anything. I thought you'd like to stay in the same room as before." There’s a tone in her voice that tells him the first part of her statement is a joke . . . maybe. He blinks. The mental image of Gene and Sarah in full battle mode as they hurl crockery at each other fills his mind's eye.

"Uh—okay," he says slowly. _So, someone has a temper to go with that red hair. Good to know._

"Jim, you're upstairs and down the hall," Sarah stacks the plates now. "Not the drafty room, the other one. It's a little smaller but more comfortable."

"That's convenient," Greg says. Wilson gives him a look, which Greg ignores of course.

"If Jim was _shtupping_ me it would be. Since he isn’t, it doesn’t matter," Sarah says calmly. "Sleep in as long as you like tomorrow. I brought the guitars up with me, they're on the couch in the living room. I'll probably play for a while later on. If anyone wants to join me they're more than welcome."

"She means you," Wilson says to Greg his tone dry. "Since I'm spectacularly untalented in regard to making music, I'm headed for bed. It’s been a very long day." He gets up from the table and carries his glass to the sink, leans in and kisses Sarah's cheek. "Thanks," he says. "'night," and takes himself off upstairs, after he collects his overnight bag.

When Greg eventually goes to his own room, there’s a small fire in the fireplace to give extra warmth. The bedclothes are turned down ready for him, along with a nice collection of pillows. The stack of books on the nightstand is all non-fiction, a couple of biographies but mostly science subjects; climate change, animal behavior, even meteorology. He smiles a little at the sight of a title on tornadoes and storm chasing, and pegs it as first choice if he needs a distraction. A tin of cookies sits atop the books, while beside them is a carafe of water. The Martin six-string waits in the chair by the fire, still nestled in its case.

But the real surprise comes when he limps his way across the house to wash up and brush his teeth. He finds the bathroom has been renovated, with a new walk-in shower that not only has rails but a seat. There's also a heater built into the wall by the sink, and an extra chair. It's still a small room, but perfectly comfortable for someone with a disability.

He stands in the doorway, overnight bag in hand, and knows all this was done for him. It is an act of consummate generosity, one he does not in any way deserve, and yet here it is. He cannot fathom why they did this, but he is grateful. The struggle to navigate the high sides of bathtubs or shower stalls has always been difficult and worrisome, though he's managed to avoid injury to this point. Cold rooms make his leg pain worse as well. Now he doesn't have to worry about either here.

After he has showered and put on his bathrobe, after he has gone back to his room and settled into his warm, comfortable bed for the night, he hears music emanate from the living room. He lies in the darkness and listens to Sarah play softly. He can't make out the song, but it's a ballad of some kind, gentle and a little sad, peaceful. Bit by bit he drifts off, as the calm notes and chords steal him away. Try as he might, he cannot fight the knowledge he is welcome here. It's a good feeling, and as much as he pokes and prods it for hidden bombs or poison coatings, he isn’t harmed by the gift. He savors it as sleep carries him off into the darkness.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_December 23rd_

Greg wakes to the sound of voices. He stretches and yawns, glances at his travel clock, and pushes aside the bedclothes. The room is warm, the fire in the fireplace burned down to embers behind the screen. Slowly he pulls on a pair of jeans and some thick socks, grabs a sweater from his overnight bag and yanks it over his head, to stuff his arms into the sleeves as he limps to the door and goes out into the living room.

As he draws closer to the kitchen he realizes he hears Sarah and Wilson as they argue about something. The spicy-sweet smell of gingerbread fills the air. Even after last night's ample dinner his belly rumbles as the fragrance grows stronger. Molasses, cloves and cinnamon make an irresistible trail to follow.

"I'm just asking you to decorate some cookies for me," Sarah says to Wilson when Greg reaches the doorway. He stands hidden in the shadows so he can watch the two of them, and gauge how serious this battle is before he walks in.

"Some?" Wilson stares at the tabletop covered with dozens of gingerbread men. "There's a whole civilization here!"

"You don't have to do them all. Whatever you can manage would be a big help," Sarah says. "They're for the get-together tomorrow night after the Vespers service at the church." She wipes a strand of carroty curls from her temple. "The kids will be looking forward to these cookies. I've made them for the last five years. If I don't get them finished in time . . . " Her voice trails off.

"And she resorts at last to emotional blackmail. Charming." Wilson gives Sarah a stern look, though his dark eyes gleam with amusement. "This is why you really invited us up here, isn't it? To be your kitchen lackeys."

"Damn, my clever plot's been discovered." Sarah flashes him a grin. For a moment she looks about seventeen years old, full of sass as spicy as the cookies. "Come on, you know you love this kind of stuff."

"Just because I like to eat the icing doesn't mean I want to decorate a bazillion of these things!"

Greg steps into the doorway, amused by their bickering. "What's in it for me if I help out?"

Sarah glances at him, and offers a genuine smile. "Good morning. Do you want some breakfast first?"

"I want cookies," he says. "A dozen for me, a dozen for the whiner."

"Yeah," Wilson chimes in. "What he said."

"No way," Sarah says, and leans against the counter with arms folded. There is a splotch of flour on her forehead, and her apron has a long drip of molasses down the front. "One dozen, period. You can split them."

"Uh uh. I want a whole twelve to myself," Greg says. "Take it or leave it." He looks at the clock on the wall. "Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . cookies not getting done, party getting closer . . . closer . . . clooooser . . . " He drops his voice to a whisper. "Tick, tick, tick, tick . . ."

"Think of the _children_ ," Wilson says in a tone thick with tears.

"Oh, all right! A dozen each, you greedy hogs," Sarah says, and shoots a mock-glare at them both. "There are extra aprons in the drawer. I'll fill some icing bags."

Soon enough they are settled at the kitchen table, absorbed in their task. Music plays in the background. Greg had expected the usual assortment of saccharine Christmas carols, but instead it's vintage Bruce Springsteen. Somehow it suits the task at hand; no amped-up fake holiday cheer, just good tunes. He feels that little knot deep inside relax a bit. So, despite the cookies she's not a Christmas fanatic. Maybe this weekend won't be a total fiasco.

He takes his time with the first cookie. Eventually Wilson makes a comment, as Greg hoped he would. "Um, the whole point of helping is to get as many of these damn things done as possible," Wilson says. "You've been working on that one for ten minutes now."

"You can't rush genius," Greg says. Sarah gives him a suspicious look.

"Let me see that cookie," she says in a total 'mom' tone. Greg hides it with his other hand. "What did you do to that innocent little gingerbread man?"

Wilson takes a peek at it. "It's anatomically correct," he announces. Greg glares at him.

"Tattletale," he says. "Bet you had a wedgie rash in school."

Sarah closes her eyes for a moment. "This was a mistake," she says, but Greg can tell she’s doing her best not to laugh. "Forget it. Just leave them."

"But I _want_ to help," Greg says, and does his best to sound sincere. "Anyway, you said they were gingerbread men. Men have penises and testicles. Unless they're Wilson and use a strap-on."

"A leather-covered steel strap-on," Wilson says, unperturbed. "At least I know how to decorate the right way."

"Suck-up," Greg says in an accusatory tone. "You think the baker will slather you with molasses and lick you like a Sugar Daddy if you do what she wants."

Sarah holds up a cookie. "I hate to interrupt this charming little _Penthouse_ _Forum_ discussion, but if you would make them look like this, please? Little jacket with buttons, nice smile, no genitalia?"

Greg studies the pattern. "Fine. If you want mediocrity that's what you'll get."

"What I want is for the little girls in the village to _not_ find out from my gingerbread cookies that men dress to the right or left," Sarah says. "I'll be banned for life."

"How about this instead?" Wilson shows off his creation, a woman with large round breasts and a filled-in triangle at the top of her legs. Greg takes one look at it and snickers.

"She's got boobies and a cootch," he points out. Wilson takes a bite of the cookie. He makes sure to include a breast.

"Mmm . . . boobies," he says around the mouthful of gingerbread.

"Oh my _god_ ," Sarah groans. "Twenty dozen cookies to decorate and I get the poster boys for arrested development as helpers. There is no justice in this world."

Eventually they settle into decoration in the G-rated style Sarah wants. It's more enjoyable than Greg ever thought such a lame, mundane chore would be. He works and listens to Wilson and Sarah tease back and forth as the music plays. At some point a pot of coffee is brewed, and Greg discovers gingerbread makes a good dunk. He's not sorry when the task is done, though. His leg is stiff and painful, and he needs to get out of the house, away from this cheerful atmosphere.

"Want to go with me into town?" Sarah asks when the cookies are neatly packed away in big tubs. "I'm gonna drop these off at the church. We can stop on the way and choose our tree."

Greg's heart sinks. So they're still stuck with the one ritual he hates the most besides the exchange of gifts.

"I'll pass," Wilson says as he unties his apron. "You two go, I'll make some lunch."

Sarah looks at Greg. She is as excited as a little kid; her eyes sparkle with happiness. "Come with me," she says. "I could use the company. Anyway, it's the perfect day to take Bob's sleigh. He said we could borrow it any time we like."

" _Sleigh_?" He can't believe what he just heard. "As in 'one-horse open'?"

"You'll see," she says. "Bundle up. Make sure you wear a hat that covers your ears."

Half an hour later he indeed finds a sleigh waits by the step, complete with a four-legged equine in a jingle-bell harness—the massive black horse he’d seen Sarah ride on his first visit to the house some weeks ago. The cookies are stowed away behind the front seats, along with two containers he hasn't seen before.

"You have got to be kidding me," he says, incredulous. "This is beyond corny. We should just take the stupid truck."

"Minnie Lou is far from stupid. Anyway, this is more fun," Sarah says. She climbs in. "Come on, it's gonna snow pretty soon. We'll take the back way into town, it's a little quicker than the main road and it probably hasn’t been plowed yet."

"How do you know it's going to snow?" Greg asks as he struggles into the seat. "Let me guess—the trees are showing their silver."

"I watched the Weather Channel." She gives him that same saucy grin he saw her use earlier on Wilson. Greg can't help but smile just a little, and then suddenly they are on their way.

It is not at all what he expected. They move at a steady pace down the lane. The bells jingle softly as snow crunches under the horse’s hooves. The world around them is white and silent, but not deserted; he sees a flash of scarlet as a male cardinal flits back and forth across their path to search for food. Sparrows are out too, fluffy little spots of soft brown that hop and peck, and the occasional squirrel makes an appearance. It is peaceful, the chill kept at bay by layers of coats and blanket. He sits back a bit, not ready to admit he finds all this of immense interest, and watches Sarah out of the corner of his eye. She holds the reins with the ease of long practice, her expression relaxed and cheerful. _So she fears the cold but this doesn't bother her_ , he thinks _._ "You renovated the bathroom," he says aloud.

"In November," she says. "We had hoped to get it done before you came out in October, but the electrician was three deep in projects at the time. How is it? Did the heater work all right? You were able to get in and out of the shower—"

"It's _fine_ ," he says. "What I’m interested in is why you had it done in the first place."

"Because I wanted you to be comfortable," Sarah says without hesitation.

"You put a large chunk of money into making sure I can pee in a warm room," Greg says. "That means you want something in return."

"For you to feel at home, that’s all," she says, and glances at him, and smiles just a little. "I hope you do."

He doesn't know what to say. After a few moments Sarah sits up and calls out a low 'whoa' to the horse. He comes to a halt, shakes his head and makes soft whuffle-noises as the harness bells make their music.

"I think we found our tree," she says. Greg looks around and sees bare deciduous hardwoods. The only thing that remotely resembles an evergreen is a jack pine, bent and scrubby. It’s done a poor best to eke out an existence on the edge of the woods, that much is plain.

" _That_ thing?" He cannot imagine she really wants such a pathetic eyesore in her living room.

"Just the ticket," she says, and hands the reins to him. "Here, mind the horse." She hops out of the sleigh before he can protest, grabs two containers from the back seat and wades through the snow. He watches in bewilderment as she reaches the tree, sets the buckets down and removes the lids. From the first bucket she takes what look like small bell-shaped ornaments. After a moment Greg can see they are seed cakes, probably held together with suet. Sarah hangs them on the branches, goes all around the tree until the lower branches are covered with the little cakes. When she can reach no higher she clears a few spots under and around the tree, then scatters seed and more chunks of suet on the bare ground. When she is finished the tree is laden with food for wild birds and animals. Sarah returns to the sleigh, her cheeks rosy.

"We'll come back in a day or two and do a refill," she says. "It'll all be gone by then." She settles into the seat, takes back the reins and makes a clicking sound with her tongue. Obviously the horse knows what the noise means; he bobs his head and starts down the lane once more.

"So that's your Christmas tree," Greg says after a time.

"Yup," Sarah says. "It’s more fun to do it this way."

He senses unpleasant history behind her simple statement, but since he's delighted they won't be subjected to tangled lights and boxes of tacky ornaments, he won't pry. Not just yet, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Suddenly I turned around and she was standing there,_ **

**_with silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair._ **

**_She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns,_ **

**" _Come in," she said, "I'll give you_**

**_shelter from the storm."_ **

The cookie delivery at the church is a success. They are greeted with genuine welcome by the pastor and his wife, who help unload the containers. There’s a reciprocal gift in the form of a loaf of what looks like a tea loaf or banana bread.

“Baked it this morning,” the pastor’s wife says, and gives them a warm smile. “Enjoy, and I hope we see you at the service.”

They are on their way back to the house when Greg says "I'm that scraggly little pine." Sarah looks at him but says nothing. "Yeah, I get it now. That's exactly how you think of me." He cannot get the image of the tree out of his head. Humiliation fills him like poison. "Cover me with treats and make me useful, and no one will see the pathetic reality underneath."

"No," she says quietly.

" _Yes_. That’s the truth of this—this stupid visit." His stomach tightens. “Trying to fix me. Make me something I’m not, and never will be.”

“You do not need fixing,” Sarah says. The absolute conviction in her voice stops his automatic protest. “I said that before, and it still stands. You need some help finding other ways to deal with situations, and people. You need help with the pain you’re in all the time. But that does not mean somethin’s wrong with you. I know a lot of people have told you otherwise. That’s their opinion, it doesn’t mean they’re right.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

“Yes it is.”

“Is not.”

Sarah turns her head to offer him a smile. Her sea-green eyes hold kindness, but also comprehension. "Is too.”

“Prove it,” he says, and adds just enough snotty challenge to his words to guarantee a response he can work with.

“Well, all right,” Sarah says, her own tone mild. “Years ago I was on a weekend hike in northern California with a couple of friends, geophysics grad students from Stanford. We stopped on a mountainside, hardly anything growing above the few water sources. But there was this tree up near the summit. The strong winds had bent it down and sheared off half the branches over the years. And yet it still managed to survive somehow, in fact it was thriving. It was a very powerful presence on that hillside. You could feel everything that tree had gone through, but there was peace too, and acceptance." She falls silent a moment. "Everyone thinks growing tall and straight in the forest is the ideal situation, but quite a few of those trees have shallow roots. And they have to compete for resources and sunlight. That tree on the mountain was stronger and more resilient for all the harsh weather it went through."

"Enough with the analogies," he growls at her. “Turning me into a tree again.”

"Hey, you're the one who started it," she says, unfazed by his antagonism.

"I think this is more about the lack of nurturing in your own life," he says, and makes it an accusation. "You take care of other people because no one took care of you."

"Yes," she says, to his surprise. "You're exactly right. I like to care for people and help them find healing, that's kinda why I became a psychologist. It lets me use my neuroses to good effect. I'd like to help you, if you'll allow it."

He snorts in an effort to hide his amusement at her reply but says nothing. They continue on in silence for a while, but it’s not an uncomfortable quiet.

"Let me ask you this," Sarah says finally. "Is a drowning man being coddled if someone gives him a life preserver?"

"Mixing your metaphors. Now I'm drowning," he says softly.

"You know you are."

Those four words hit him like blows from a closed fist. He looks out over the frozen landscape and does his best to push away the pain.

"There is help here, if you want it," she says. "Use your senses and that truly magnificent brain of yours, and pay attention. That's all you have to do."

"How many sessions do I have to go through until you're satisfied nothing will change! _I_ won’t change," he snaps.

"I’m not trying to change you," she says. "Anyway, no more sessions."

Greg turns to look at her, incredulous. "There’s no point in my being here then."

"There’s every point. You're gonna let the good baby Jesus shut your mouth and open your mind," she says, and flashes him a grin. "I get it now. Traditional hour-long point-counterpoint won’t work with you."

"Jane, you ignorant slut," he says, because it’s too good a cheap shot to pass up. Sarah laughs, and the sweet musical sound rings in the quiet lane like a silver bell. It makes his heart ache, but in a good way. He can’t bear it so he shoves the emotion away, refuses to own it.

"Okay, I wasn't going to say anything until tomorrow, but I guess this is as good a time and place as any to give you your main Christmas present." She brings the team to a halt and faces him. She's still smiling, but her sea-green gaze is serious. "Gene and I would like you to stay here while you're in therapy, and after the surgery through recovery." He stares at her in utter astonishment, for once bereft of words. "I'd stay here as well," she says, "We've been thinkin’ about selling the house in New Jersey and making this our base of operations anyway."

“You understand this crosses a big line. Once you do it, that’s it. Sort of like sex the first time,” Greg says when he can speak. If he thought the bathroom renovation was overly generous, this is a thousand times worse.

“Yes,” Sarah says simply. “I wouldn’t do this for any other patient I’ve worked with. But in this case, I believe extraordinary measures are called for. Traditional timed sessions of talk therapy are not the way to help you help yourself. You need more. I’m willing to offer more, I have it in my power to do so, and it’s my choice to implement that ability, if you want to give it a try.”

"Because you got fired. You—you're giving up your practice to do this." Shame touches him. He caused this . . . _No, she caused it_ , he thinks. _She could find a job someplace else, that’s not my responsibility._ He won't take this on, no way.

“Life handed me some lemons, so I’m making _limoncello_ ,” she says. “Better than sour persimmons any day.”

Greg chokes back a laugh. “You really are too damn good to be true. This is bullshit and you know it.”

"Nope, it’s good clean earth ready for planting. Now who's mixin' their metaphors?" She flashes him a brief grin. "Look at it this way: I'm just taking my practice down to one patient, for now at any rate." She tilts her head a little. "Think about it. You don't have to give me an answer—"

"Yes." He is utterly shocked to hear himself say that when he meant to say no. It's reckless and stupid and he must be out of his mind to even agree to this, but he knows it's what he needs. Sarah nods her head.

"Okay," she says. "Good," and starts the sleigh again with a soft ‘gee-up’. The horse snorts and shakes his head but complies, and the harness bells jingle softly.

"You better be sure your hubby is on board with this," Greg says after a time. "He and I aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment."

"We talked about it last week," she says. "I wouldn't have made the offer if Gene wasn’t okay with it."

“’Okay with it’ can mean a lot of things.” Greg looks out over the frozen field to his right. There are broken cornstalks, a few ridges of earth exposed to show dark against the bright snowdrifts. “If he’s still pissed off—“

“He’ll make his peace, but it won’t involve beating you up. Gene’s not built that way. He’s protective, but he doesn’t resort to physical means unless he’s pushed pretty hard.” She falls silent a moment. "Things have a way of straightening themselves out. You'll see."

Nothing more is said for the rest of the ride home, but that’s fine with Greg; he needs to think about what’s just happened. And yet he can’t seem to be bothered. For some reason he feels more alive now than he has in a very long time. He considers Sarah’s words over and over, trying to find some hidden meaning in them, some string attached, but there's none. It's a simple offer of assistance, made out of compassion. She even seems to like him—He shoves the thought away. No one likes him, never has, never will.

 _Don’t mistake compassion for friendliness,_ he thinks. _Don’t let yourself get drawn in and then kicked out. You know that’s inevitable no matter what you do, because you always screw things up even when you don’t plan to. If you believe the lie, you’ll get hurt. It always happens. Always._ But somehow those familiar words sound hollow, without conviction.

Lunch is about as far from stale takeout as it’s possible to be—hot beef stew with warm biscuits fresh from the oven on the side, and oatmeal-raisin cookies in the owl-shaped ceramic cookie jar on the counter.

“I’m gonna gain ten pounds,” Wilson moans as he sits down with another bowl of stew. “My pants are too tight as it is.”

“You can always go for a walk,” Sarah says. She sits with them at the dining room table, a cup of tea at hand.

“It’s snowing.” Wilson dunks a biscuit in his stew.

“Afraid you’ll get a concussion if a snowflake hits your head?” She rolls her eyes. “Take a stroll down the driveway and come back. That’s a half-mile. I do it every day to pick up the mail.” She looks down her nose at Wilson. “City slicker. Country livin’ would shape you up in no time.”

“No thanks.” He glances at Greg, then away.

“I get dibs on the couch,” Greg says. “That’s the extent of my exercise for the rest of the afternoon.”

Later on, when he is indeed crashed out on the big comfy couch, he lets his gaze wander around the room. There’s a nice fire ablaze in the fireplace, and a lamp or two lit against the grey day outside.  He has lived at many addresses around the world over the years, some better than others. Never has he felt like anywhere was home, never really cared that much about having a real home—what was the point? But this place . . . he could be tempted. Stupid, but still true.

Wilson plops into the chair by the couch. He has on old sweats— _expandable waistband_ , Greg thinks wryly--and a cable-knit sweater in dark blue, his thick hair a little ruffled from static electricity in the dry air. He’s the one who looks at home here, the one who belongs. “How’s the pain?” he asks.

“Thank you _so_ much for rubbing lemon juice in that paper cut.”

“I’m your mobile prescription pad.” There’s a hint of a nasty jab in that comment—no surprises there, Wilson resents his position as go-to peep for meds. In fact he dislikes it now even more than he did while Vicodin was Greg’s drug of choice. “It’s to my advantage if I find out ahead of time if you need anything. So—how are you? Doing okay?”

Greg closes his eyes, his hands folded across his middle. "I'm good," he says, and in this moment it really is the truth for once.


	7. Chapter 7

_December 24th_

Gene pulled the minivan into the side parking spot and turned off the engine, then faced Sarah. It was the first chance they'd had to be alone together since his return earlier that afternoon. "How was the Vespers service? Sorry I got in late. Everything was delayed, it's a mess from Texas to Omaha. I snagged the last flight after the front came through."

"It was sweet. The wise men had new robes made for them by the quilting club, and the three year olds were a flock of sheep. Evan's mom made sheepskins for them to wear with little tails, they were adorable. Jay made a good Santa Claus, as usual," Sarah said, and gave him a smile. "Were you able to get the food donation to Pastor Ron?"

Gene nodded. "Loaded everything into the basement just in time. It's all set up to distribute right there in the kitchen. The kids at the supermarket helped me pack it in the stockroom, and they’re all sworn to secrecy. There's enough for everyone. Rick's doing the toys this year."

"The kids will have plenty of goodies, then," Sarah said, and stretched a little. "He always buys more than enough." She hesitated. “Can we talk?”

“It’s warmer in the house,” Gene said—a weak joke, but the best he could do under the circumstances.

"Yeah, I know, but we have company and I want this to be just between you and me. Is that all right with you?”

Gene understood why she asked. She knew about his dislike of confrontations in enclosed spaces. “It’s okay. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Okay.” She hesitated. “I just want to say I'm sorry about the fight we had." She put her hand over his. "I know you were trying to protect me. I didn't mean to hurt you. I lost my temper and it didn’t do either one of us any good. I shouldn’t have let my feelings get the better of me."

Gene looked down at her hand. She’d used lotion on her skin, but it was still a little reddened from the cold, and her cuticles needed to be trimmed and moisturized too. _She always gets chilblains when winter comes,_ he thought. _She’ll wear paper tape and salve on the cracks clear through to April._ "You're asking a lot when you want me to step down," he said aloud.

"I know," she said. "You're the only one who's ever offered to take things on for me. I don't always know how to handle it." She sounded ashamed, and worried. Gene’s heart expanded with love. He leaned in and kissed her lips, warm and a little chapped from the cold air.

“I accept your apology,” he said. “Here’s mine. I’m sorry I got you so upset. That wasn’t my intention. It’s just . . .” He sighed softly. “Sarah Jane, you’ve been hurt enough. I don’t like seein’ you get hurt again, because I love you more than my life. This situation has plenty of variables for pain and misunderstanding in it. I’d rather not see you take it on, but if it’s your choice, then okay. We’ll deal with things as they come up.” He took a breath. “I promise not to make executive decisions if you’ll do the same.”

Without a word Sarah put her hand to his cheek and returned his kiss. Gene felt the softness of her lips on his and savored the little shock of delight he always knew when she did this.

"Kiss and make up is the best part of this," he said when the kiss ended. She gave his cheek a caress.

"Yeah, it is," she said, her smile a glimmer in the soft darkness. "There are a few leftover cookies. I saved them for you."

"Eeeexcellent," he said, and Sarah laughed a little.

An hour later Gene stood in front of the TV with cold beer in hand. The lamps in the windows glowed, their soft light added to the bright blaze from the fireplace.

"Lady and gentlemen," he said, "welcome to the seventh annual showing of our favorite Christmas movie—“

“ _Your_ favorite movie,” Sarah said loudly. Gene ignored her.

 “—so by popular demand, without further ado I give you . . ." He started the DVD with a flourish. " _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians_." He moved to the couch and dropped into a spot beside Sarah as she rolled her eyes and groaned.

"Good grief," Wilson said. "That dreck is on disc now?" He propped his feet on the coffee table and snagged a bowl of popcorn.

"Hey, it's got Pia Zadora in it," House said. Gene nodded his head.

"Exactly," he said. He and House saluted each other with their beers. Gene noted House's gaze didn't slide away; it stayed steady for just a moment, a silent flicker of apology in his vivid gaze. Gene dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment and knocked back some Yuengling. It tasted like heaven after a day filled with bitter coffee and greasy fast food. _We’ll see how things go,_ he thought. He wasn’t quite ready to let House off so easily, but he didn’t want to start a feud either. He’d observe how things progressed over the next couple of days.

"Nice. She's all of _six years old_ ," Sarah said with considerable sarcasm. "Way to go, guys."

"Yeah, you perverts," Wilson said, and almost dumped the popcorn bowl as House pushed his legs off the coffee table.

For the next hour and a half the comments and snark flew, as beer and snacks were consumed in prodigious amounts. As usual Sarah fell asleep halfway through, her head on his shoulder. Gene was tired as well, but he enjoyed this ritual too much to give it up for a little extra rest. Besides, he could sleep in. Sarah rarely did, she liked to be up early to do stockings and make cinnamon rolls for breakfast, but she would catnap later in the day and he would make sure she got plenty of extra sleep on the weekend. He slipped his arm around her waist and breathed in the warm sweet smell of her, familiar and yet still exotic. Her thick curls sparked in the flickering light of the fire, auburn and roan, copper and bay all mixed together. He never tired of the array of colors; they were as much a part of her personality as her smile and her silver laugh.

Once the movie was over Gene switched to satellite and tossed the remote to House. "Newbie's privilege," he said, "No porn, but anything else is fine."

House thumbed through the choices and settled for a _Firefly_ marathon on the Science Channel. Gene finished off his beer and listened to House and Wilson trade snark, amused at and familiar with the male mindset behind the comments. On his schedule, it was a rare night when he got the chance to hang out with guys. He'd hoped to have another evening with his younger brothers in Nebraska earlier in the week, but it hadn't been possible. This was the next best thing and he was going to enjoy it while he could.

Eventually the lateness of the hour took its toll. Wilson was the first to leave. "Okay, I'm done," he said, and got to his feet. He saluted and turned toward the stairs, a bit unsteady after several beers, but still able to move in the right direction. "'night."

They watched him make his way to the second floor. Silence fell, punctuated only by the muted sounds of special effects violence from the television.

"Your wifey talked with me this afternoon," House said at last. Gene looked at him in mild surprise. He didn't think the man volunteered personal information very often. There had to be an ulterior motive for this comment.

"So you know about the offer," he said. "What do you plan to do?"

"I'd . . . I’d like to accept. But only if you're not going to beat me to a pulp every time my shrink and I have difficulties." There was a touch of defiance in the statement, but it was obviously sincere. There was something else behind it too, something Gene knew all too well himself; the sound of someone who’d endured more than his share of beat-downs. His resentment faded a bit. He didn’t push for it all to go away; it would in time, but for now, a little was the best he could do.

"I won't." Gene eased his arm around Sarah. She stirred a bit and snuggled into him. "When I was a kid my old man smacked my mom around on a regular basis," he said softly, and kept his voice low. He didn’t want Sarah to be a part of this conversation if he could help it. This was between him and House. "There was nothing I could do about it. When someone causes my wife trouble or pain, I have a hard time being reasonable."

House looked away. "Ah." He fidgeted. "I didn't want her fired. That was . . . unexpected."

"I could have told you the old farts at Mayfield have no sense of humor," Gene said dryly.

House snorted. "Bastards." He rubbed his thigh with an absent gesture; his lean fingers moved lightly over the gully just visible under the fabric of his jeans. "I . . . I really want to work with her."

"Then do it and don't fuck around," Gene said. He didn’t make it a direct confrontation, but it wasn’t just a comment either. He gently set Sarah aside and got to his feet, then gathered her up in his arms. She stirred and yawned.

"I c'n walk," she mumbled, and lay her cheek to his shoulder. Gene nodded at House.

"Good night," he said. "Bank the fire down before you go, if you would. See you later this morning." He turned away and left his guest to the quiet darkness of the empty living room.

When they reached the bedroom Gene lowered Sarah to the bed. She blinked and yawned, stretched a bit, felt around for the blanket. Gene pushed her hands down gently and removed her sweater. He eased her arms out, then her head. She yawned again and smiled up at him, her sleepy face flushed and beautiful in the firelight. “I c’n do the rest,” she said, her soft voice not much more than a murmur.

So he left her while he banked the fire and replaced the screen, shucked off his own clothes and put on a tee shirt and flannel bottoms, and brushed his teeth. By the time he returned to the bed, her jeans and bra had joined her sweater in a little heap on the floor, and she wore one of his tee shirts. She opened the bedclothes so he could climb in, and turned toward him as he moved close to her.

“Heard you talkin’ with Greg,” she said. “Give him a little time. He doesn’t know what to think or do right now.”

“Yeah, I know.” Gene tucked a curl behind her ear. “He’d better not be fuckin’ around, that’s all.”

“Give him some time,” she said again, and pulled the sheets and quilt up over her head. Gene chuckled.

“Little hothouse flower,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “Get some sleep. You’ll be up in a few hours.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” She snuggled a little closer. “’night. Love you.”

“Love you too,” he said, and closed his eyes as he eased his arm around her waist and settled in.


	8. Chapter 8

_December 25th_

_Christmas morning_

Sarah crept down the stairs. She glanced at her watch—six a.m. almost on the dot. She gave Greg's bedroom door a quick look as she passed by, but there was no sign of life. Undoubtedly all the men would sleep in, and that would give her plenty of time to get things ready for later on.

She took the sweet dough she'd made the night before out of the fridge and set up the bread board, put on her apron and tied back her hair. She floured the board and began to roll out the dough, the sound of the rolling pin a steady rhythm to accompany her thoughts. She’d made this recipe so many times she didn’t even have to think about how to do it, she just did it.

She loved this time of day, the hours before dawn when the house was hers and the peace of deep night was still settled in all the rooms. The silence soothed and eased her heart in a way she could never describe. It was as essential to her daily routine as water or air was necessary to her body's survival. When her chores were done and the sun was on the rise, she would go for a walk and complete her meditation.

Sarah brushed the dough with milk and spread the cinnamon filling over it, rolled it with care and cut thick slices. She lay them in the greased baking dish and covered them with a damp tea towel. Now she had time to get the stockings ready.

 _Forty years old and I still love doing this_ , she thought as she brought out the boxes full of goodies she had purchased over the course of her travels the last few months. The search to find the right odds and ends had been the hardest and the most enjoyable part, but with that problem solved she only had to get the stockings filled and hung up on the mantelpiece.

She was ready to place the last stocking when she heard Greg's door open. In a panic Sarah ducked down behind the couch. She held her breath as he passed by, headed for the bathroom. His footsteps slowed, then stopped. She willed him to move on.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Sarah looked up. Greg loomed over her; a frown creased his strong features. She said the first thing that came into her head.

"Go pee. Then straight back to bed, or Santa won't leave you anything nice." She paused. "Don't forget to wash your hands when you're done."

He stared at her for a long moment. Without another word he turned away and left the room. Sarah let out a breath and stood up. She felt like a complete fool as she took the stocking to the fireplace and hung it carefully on the last hook, then went into the kitchen.

She had her back to the doorway when Greg emerged from the bathroom, but she could see him in her peripheral vision. Sarah set the oven to heat; a blush crept into her cheeks as he passed by and paused. "Thanks for the advice, _Mom_ ," he said, but under the sarcasm there was a hint of humor in his sleep-roughened voice. Then he was gone.

After the second batch was set to rise she made herself a cup of tea, sat down and put her feet up. The first faint grey light of dawn showed outside to reveal a thick curtain of snow; she would have to take her walk later. Sarah watched the flakes float past the glass and thought of her conversation with Greg the day before. She wasn't really quite sure how to proceed or what would happen, despite her show of confidence with him. Such a substantial move away from the classic therapeutic model was worrisome; this was territory she had never explored before. And yet somehow she knew this was the correct approach to take. Greg behaved very much like the abused horses she had worked with now and then over the years, locked into his fears by ingrained distrust, and ready to lash out at anyone within reach as a consequence.

This would be a difficult task, one of the hardest she'd ever chosen, she knew it going in. Still, she relished the chance to try a different model of analysis, even as she hoped to offer trust and compassion to a wounded spirit. _What happens to a sensitive, intelligent and deeply empathetic child when he is given to parents who have no idea how to deal with his gifts?_ She sipped her tea. _He learns to create layers of protection. The problem then becomes how to escape when that protection turns into a prison. Even when he no longer needs it, it's a self-defense strategy he's used to stay alive, and now he's afraid to set it aside._

The timer on her watch beeped; the first batch of rolls was done. Sarah stood and stretched, glanced out the window at the snow. _If you want a horse to follow you, walk away,_ she thought, and smiled a little. The situation would guide her actions, along with experience and a pinch of intuition; it would work, though probably not in the way she thought it would or should. _But that doesn't matter,_ she thought as she took the browned and fragrant rolls from the oven. _The important part will be the healing he finds for himself. That's all that really counts._

 

Greg lies in his warm haven of a bed, and listens to the sounds of the household as it stirs to life. He's been awake on and off since his encounter with Sarah earlier that morning. To find her crouched behind the sofa with a stocking clutched in her hand had amused him at first, but now it's a reminder that the one ritual he hates most about Christmas is about to be forced on him, and he wants no part of it.

It isn't like he didn't bring gifts. Wilson bought and wrapped them of course, but the tags have Greg's name on them and that's all that matters anyway. _Stupid waste of time,_ he thinks, and huddles deeper under the comforter. But he cannot hide from memories of childhood Christmases when the only gifts under the tree came from his mother, even though Dad's name was on the tag too. Or the years when his father mocked the homemade presents Greg had been coerced to make. That was the start of the 'you're such a sissy' era, when any artistic ability was evidence of his abnormality, his inability to be the tough, macho boy his dad really wanted. _He made sure I found them in the trash later._ The sting of that rejection still hurts despite the passage of years.

For ages now he's managed to avoid the give and take of presents. He’s turned it into a game, a method to find out what people really want from him. Because he knows full well this ridiculous tradition was never about a gift freely offered. There's always a price to pay, some string attached, and he won’t owe anyone if he can avoid it.

The sounds outside his door grow louder, and now the fragrance of coffee slowly seeps into the room and makes his stomach growl. On a sigh he sits up and scrubs a hand over his face. _Might as well get this over with._

When he emerges from his sanctuary it's to find everyone congregated at the dining room table for breakfast. The kitchen radio is on, but it's not holiday music, it's the regional NPR station. A big pan of cinnamon rolls waits ready to be consumed, accompanied by a pot of coffee, plates, mugs and utensils. Greg gets some joe and sits down at the far end of the table, away from the others. He watches them as they talk and laugh and munch rolls. He feels isolated, on edge, irritable.

"May I touch you?" Sarah stands next to him. He hadn't noticed her enter his personal space, but her soft voice eases some of the anxiety. He nods and turns his head away. Her hand rests on his shoulder, light and gentle. "It's okay if you don't want to open presents with everyone watching," she says softly. "I can put yours by your door and you can check them out in private whenever you like."

After a few moments he nods again, grateful for her understanding but unable to show it.

"We have one other tradition besides the movie," Sarah says. "On Christmas night we invite a few of our neighbors in for a buffet dinner. Everyone has to wear an ugly holiday sweater. If you would like to join the party, you'd be more than welcome. If not, that's fine too."

"I . . . I don't have anything like that with me," he says after a time. Sarah laughs softly.

"You will when you open your gifts," she says. Her small hand rubs his shoulder, gentle and slow. "How about a roll to go with the coffee?"

Later on, when the others are gathered in the living room to exchange presents, he collects the small pile of gifts and the stocking placed by his bedroom door and takes them in with him, along with a couple of rolls he stole from the pan when no one was around.

The first package is soft and flexible. It proves to be the sweater Sarah mentioned. Santa, dressed in a fire-engine red suit, riding in a lime green sleigh, and nine reindeer (including Rudolf) with enormous ornament-laden antlers fly over a snowy housetop, complete with functional LED lights. Sequin stars glitter all over the damn thing, and Rudolf's nose blinks. It is truly hideous. A smile slowly turns up the corners of Greg's mouth. He sets the sweater aside and opens another present, this one from Sarah. It is a runner's watch, the latest model with digital readouts on heartbeat, oxygen saturation levels and other delights. He understands immediately what it means. She believes he will have the surgery and it will be successful. It doesn't matter that he still won't be able to run; this is her way to show she is certain he will eventually be pain-free. He looks down at the watch for a long time. Then he slips off the watch Kutner gave him, holds it for a moment, sets it aside. He puts Sarah’s gift on his wrist, fastens the band.

The next gift is from Gene. It's a vintage GameBoy. He powers it up and his smile widens as the first level of Crash Test Dummies appears. He plays for a few minutes, glad to know he remembers the tricks and cheats for each section of the game.

The last gift is from Wilson. He's not sure what to expect—a silk tie or the latest cologne, something really useless and frou-frou. Instead it's a tee shirt, a little faded and worn but still wearable—an all-blues concert held in Memphis some years back, with big names and small listed on the roster. He's lusted after this one on Ebay for ages. No way would Wilson figure out he wanted it, though; someone must have coached him. Probably a certain someone with red hair who already knows way too much about what he likes.

"So you’re the one who outbid me," he says softly. "This cost you four hundred bucks. Better you than me."

He wears the new tee when he takes the first handful of goodies out of his stocking. Chocolate of course—handfuls of Baci and Mozartkugeln, Godiva truffles and cherry brandy cordials; a new Cross pen, black barrel with silver fittings, very elegant and perfectly weighted for his hand; a book of temporary tatts, buttons with sarcastic quips on them, some flash drives with music mixes and mashups for his laptop, polished pieces of snowflake obsidian and sodalite, a bag of Boston Red Hots, an enormous chocolate orange, hand-held puzzles and black-belt Sudoku books and a primer on how to pick up girls (with the worst advice he's ever read), a little NOAA weather radio, and a pack of colored pencils tied to a leather-bound sketchbook. He munches a roll and some chocolate as he sifts through all this swag, secretly delighted.

After a while he scoops everything up and puts it carefully into the box the tee shirt came in, sets it on the floor, then settles the comforter over him. He pulls the book on storm chasing off the stack on his nightstand, takes a bite of cinnamon roll and starts to read, aware of talk and laughter as it drifts in from the living room. Maybe later he'll go out and show off his riches. For now he's content to be right where he is.


	9. Chapter 9

Sarah finished off her final ginger beer of the evening and rubbed tired eyes. She really should have been in bed an hour ago, but she was still too wired, so there was no point—she might as well stay up and wait until exhaustion pulled her closer toward relaxation. She watched the fireplace embers ripple and glow, and thought about the evening's events.

The get-together had gone well. Everyone they’d invited had attended, as usual: Jay Lombardi, Bob Gibbs, the older farmer who owned the place across the road, and her friend Kris. Jim and Greg had participated as well, though James was far more enthusiastic. Greg had kept to himself for the most part; still, he’d showed up for the annual Rook tournament and played against Kris, Gene and Bob. They’d set up at the dining room table while everyone else piled into the living room to listen to music, drink beer, eat the usual holiday goodies and share town gossip. Gene had revealed his new ugly sweater, purchased in Nebraska: bright scarlet with enormous stylized white, hot pink and orange snowflakes scattered all over it. Wilson had predicted burned retinas for the entire group. Everyone voted it second best in show, though Greg had won first prize—the big box of kirsch-filled chocolate Santas, a much-desired specialty from the village candy fund-raiser staged earlier that week by the local elementary school.

To her delighted surprise, Greg had joined the pickup session after supper. Granted, he stayed on the fringes and barely talked to anyone, but he'd participated, had even turned on his sweater's LED lights. Everyone had treated him with the calm, non-intrusive friendliness Sarah had come to expect from the people here. She'd watched Greg relax as he was included without an expectation to respond. Jim had kept an eye on him too, and used his flirtation with Kris as a cover. Kris had accepted it with good grace; she and Jim always made passes at each other and traded outrageous remarks, it was a game they'd played since they’d first met several years ago at the initial ugly sweater party. House had certainly noticed; his keen gaze took in every gesture and smile. He'd said nothing however, no snark or sarcasm. Undoubtedly he would pry any further information out of Jim on the way home tomorrow.

So proceedings had gone very well . . . until the phone call. Sarah had known it would come, had anticipated it for some time, but it still took her by surprise all the same. She'd slipped into the mudroom with the cordless, shivered a little in the cold, unwilling to call attention to herself with a move upstairs. In silence she'd listened to the slurred voice on the other end and winced as it rose in volume, demanded an answer from her.

“You gonna make yourself useful for once and give me what I want?”

"No," she said at last. "You know I won't."

Five long minutes later, the caller flung a last incoherent curse at her and hung up. She stood and stared down at the phone in her hand. Only when the disconnect screech brought her back to the present did she look up to find Greg there. He stood in the doorway and said nothing, only turned away. Sarah clicked the phone off and followed him, almost chilled through and numb. By the time she had reached the living room she'd pulled herself together enough to prevent unwelcome questions. Gene had known, though. Within moments he was by her side, to slip his arm about her waist as he brought her close. For once she allowed herself to take some strength from his protectiveness, even as she remembered their recent fight and hated her hypocrisy.

Now here she was, ready to ignore the good company and fun she’d enjoyed along with everyone else, focused on the brief call that had shattered her composure and left her sick inside. _You'd think I'd be able to shake it off by now_ , she thought. _You'd think I'd take my own advice and let this go._ But the pain wouldn't leave. It stayed lodged deep in her heart like a barbed arrowhead, meant to cause damage no matter how she tried to deal with it. Sarah pressed her forehead to her knees and closed her eyes.

 _I’ve worked so hard to make good memories here_ , she thought. She and Gene both had an unspoken agreement about holidays; they shared as many of them together as possible. It wasn’t all that hard since they were both estranged from their families to a large degree, but they’d both made it a priority. This home had become their place of refuge, and they’d filled it with good things of all kinds. It helped, but at a moment like this she still felt stripped of her defenses, vulnerable. She fought against the tide of quiet despair as it approached her, and did her best not to slip under its black waters.

_December 26th_

Quite some time after everyone has gone home, in the small hours of the morning, Greg finds Sarah in the living room curled up on the couch. In the dying light of the fire it is possible to see she is still awake. She doesn't look at him when he perches on the arm of the chair next to her and stretches his leg. The ache is a bit less now that he’s taken his meds, but it’s still a presence.

"Who was it?" he asks quietly, though he already has a pretty good idea. He remembers the expression on her face as she’d held the receiver to her ear and listened. If he had to come up with an analogy, she’d looked like someone forced to drink poison.

"It was my mother," she says. There is a wealth of pain in that simple statement.

"So the woman hasn't completely fried her brain." He twiddles his cane between his fingers. "Impressive. Either that's due to excellent genetics or really watered down dope."

"It's not from lack of trying." Sarah lifts her head and tips it back to rest on the couch. She hugs her knees, folded in tight on herself.

"Let me guess. She wants you to play cash machine or drug dispenser."

"Both would be ideal, though I'm sure if Gene gave her a box of fentanyl patches she'd be just as happy." Somehow there is no bitterness in Sarah's voice. "They're worth a lot on the black market. She'd sell a few of them and keep enough to stay stoned for a week or so." She sighs softly. "I don't give her money for obvious reasons. Drugs are completely out of the question, of course."

"You haven't pushed to get her into rehab." He watches her closely. Sarah shakes her head.

"I tried a few times, but she made it clear she wasn't interested. Sobriety was never on her list of priorities anyway."

"She's a total loser," he says. "You should just say the hell with it and walk away."

"She's my mom," Sarah says at last.

"So what? She's not worth it. Biology doesn't mean jack."

"I want to give her the chance to change."

"You just said _she_ doesn't want to change. She made your life miserable," he says, angry with her now. "She was supposed to take care of you and she didn't. She's a selfish asshole, a bitch. She deserves to die alone."

"I'm well aware of what she didn't do for any of her children." Sarah sounds tired. "But there's always the outside chance that someday she'll be sober for real."

"Yeah, that fairy tale will come true," he snaps. "You're going to welcome her with open arms, all is forgiven, you get the mom you always wanted. I call bullshit."

"She'll never be the mom I wanted," Sarah says quietly. "I stopped wishing for that a long time ago. But if she asked for forgiveness, there would still be a place for her at my table."

"You're letting her break your heart," he says eventually, astounded at her willful idiocy. "She'll never do anything else."

"I know." The bleakness in her soft voice reveals the depth of her comprehension, and her own pain. He waits for her to say more, but she is silent. After a moment he leaves the room, unable to bear her grief a moment longer.

He lies awake for a long time that night, and thinks of what Sarah revealed to him. She didn’t have to answer any of his questions, she could have told him to fuck off, or just walked away. Instead she was honest. She allowed him to witness one of her great weaknesses. He knows that’s what it is by the level of pain she endures; she wants a mother she'll never have. Part of the pain comes from that desire, but the greater part comes from the knowledge that it's a hopeless desire. She will always be motherless in the worst way, with her mom still alive but dead to her in every way that counts except the physical. That probably won’t be too far off either, from the sound of it.

Greg thinks of his own mother. Blythe is the kind of person most people would consider a model mom. He remembers his words to Cameron after a visit from his parents: ‘ _She was a housewife . . . married forty-seven years . . . just like everyone else, nice enough, no great sense of humor, hates confrontation._ ’ She’d taken care of him, made sure he was clothed, fed, given some attention, got what he needed and a few things he wanted too. And she loved him, still does. Compared to someone like Sarah, that’s pure wealth. He knows it. But he also knows she created a bastard in more ways than one, and she also left the discipline to John and never interfered or protested no matter what happened, though she tried to defend him when she could.

He feels the inevitable roil of guilt and anger inside even as he thinks it. At least he had someone in his corner now and then. From what he’s read in Sarah’s journal, from what he’s seen tonight, she’s been alone from a very young age. No wonder she’s created this place, a haven of warmth and every good thing she could cram into it. She needs this fortress in the same way he needs his shell, to stay safe. That’s good to know, and a nice weapon if things get dicey with the therapy and he wants to get out. He knows it’ll happen sooner or later.

Sleep is impossible at this point. He heaves himself upright and wonders if Sarah is still in the living room. He wants to borrow the Martin, play a bit so he can push his thoughts to the back of his brain and let music take over for a while. Slowly he goes to his door, opens it just a crack. The living room appears empty. He sidles out and limps into the living room as quietly as possible. The guitar cases sit next to the easy chair. He leans down to open the second case and hears a soft breath. He hesitates, turns just a bit as best he can on his bad leg.

Sarah is asleep on the couch. She has the throw draped over her, and her head rests on a cushion. In the dying firelight he can see her eyes are a bit swollen, and there are still damp spots on the fabric under her cheek. Of course she cried herself to sleep. Greg looks down at her. He wonders how many times she’s done this in her life, how many nights she’s faced loneliness and pain. After a few moments he turns away, opens the case, extracts the Martin, and goes off to his room, to close the door behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

**_I've heard newborn babies wailing like a mourning dove,_ **

**_and old men with broken teeth, stranded without love._ **

**_Do I understand your question man, it is hopeless and forlorn . . ._ **

**" _Come in," she said, "I'll give you_**

**_shelter from the storm."_ **

_December 26th_

"So you're really going to take Sarah up on her offer?"

They are on the way back to New Jersey. The roads are clear; the sun has already started to settle toward the horizon as the short winter afternoon winds down. Wilson's question interrupts the thoughts that have chased themselves in Greg's mind like squirrels around a tree trunk.

"No, it's all some gigantic plot to fake everyone out," he says, and turns his head to look out the window. A couple of SUVs blow by them at a rate of speed far too fast for the road conditions, but he can appreciate the probable sentiment behind the actions—he’d like to get out of this car and back to where he lives as soon as possible too. He really hopes against hope Wilson won’t expect him to talk all the way home. He has a lot to think about, and he’d rather do it without the requirement for inane babble. Besides, he’s had enough experience as a captive audience in cars. John House loved to berate both his wife and bastard son on those long, long drives to new assignments. The memory of endless harangues and arguments is enough to make him reach for his iPod and drown out anything Wilson wants to say.

"Of course." Wilson changes lanes to pass a double semi as it kicks up a slurry of road salt and grime. "Are you sure about this? There's probably not much to do up here during the winter. You know your boredom threshold is a lot lower than most people's."

Greg snorts. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Just another way of showing we're BFFs."

"I didn't mean it that way," Wilson says in protest. "I just want to know if you've thought this through. It's a big commitment."

"So now I'm incapable of understanding the consequences of my own actions." Greg rubs his thigh. It hurts like hell, and his meds have done little to take down the pain level with the change in weather on the way. "You enjoy deflating confidence. It's just one of your many duties as a duly authorized agent of Satan."

"I don't want to see you or Sarah get hurt." Wilson sighs. "Okay, that didn't come out right either."

"Maybe if you stop trying to put a spin on --"

"I don't think you're ready for this." Wilson sounds defensive. "I think you're just—just running away again."

Greg winces inwardly. "Not," he says out loud.

"Convince me."

The arrogance in the reply annoys him. "Fuck off!"

"The only reason I'm asking—" Wilson stops. "I care about both you and Sarah. That's all."

Greg rolls his eyes. "The implication being I'll go berserk and ax murder everyone in a five mile radius."

"You've both been through enough." The interruption is one step short of anger.

"You still love her."

"Not romantically, but yes, I do love her, very much. She's one of the best friends I've ever had," Wilson says quietly. "She was also smart enough to refuse when I asked her to marry me."

Greg slews around in his seat to stare at Wilson. " _Whoa_." That’s one informed suspicion confirmed.

"Yeah." There is a half-smile on the other man's face, but there's no humor in it.

"She wouldn't talk about what went down in college. So to speak," Greg says, as he analyzes this tidbit of confirmation.

"I asked her, she said no. We had a . . . heated discussion. She told me some things . . ." Wilson falls silent a moment. "She has a tendency to give people total truthfulness when she's angry or upset, whether they're ready for it or not. That's what has me worried."

"You think I can't handle the truth." Greg gives it his best Jack Nicholson imitation, which is actually not that good.

"I _know_ if you feel like you're cornered, you'll do something stupid." Wilson grips the wheel, his knuckles white. "There's plenty of evidence to prove my point."

"So that means I should open the door and jump out, because I'm feeling pretty cornered at the moment."

"All I'm saying is, think carefully about what you're doing," Wilson says. "I know you want the surgery and you need Sarah's approval before you get it. Just—consider your methods. You might end up hurting someone again who is genuinely trying to help."

"As opposed to someone smacking another someone around with shitty advice," Greg snaps. "I suggest you stop now while you're way behind and totally clueless."

The rest of the ride is conducted in a tense silence. Greg doesn't care; he closes his eyes and tries to will away the pain. He can feel the reality of Princeton and everything it means to him as it grows closer with each mile; now that he's made the choice to leave, he doesn't want to go back, even to pick up his things. He wants out—away from the endless loop of expectations, assumptions, demands for more, always more. He knows the desire for numbness will be there in wait for him at the edges of his mind, ready to hover over every action. If he doesn't break this chain for good, he'll never be free.

When they arrive at Wilson's place he calls Sarah. It isn't his idea; she requested it before they left. Now she says "Second thoughts?"

"Nope." He tosses his overnight bag on the couch and goes into the kitchen in search of a cold beer.

"Wilson give you a hard time?"

"Yup." He grabs a Flying Fish IPA and pops the top on the doorway molding, something he knows Wilson hates because it scars the finish. It’s not even his apartment and he hates it.

"Thought so," she says. "Try not to be too hard on him, it's nice to have someone who cares enough to nag you to death." The word 'nag' comes out in two soft quick syllables: _nay-yag_. Somehow he finds that little trace of twang a quiet reassurance.

"Say that a few million times and _you_ might start to believe it. I won't," he mutters, and she chuckles softly.

"Get some dinner and pop some pain meds, you're hurting. Didn't you ask to stop halfway?"

"There’s no point to this conversation." He takes a huge swallow of beer.

"Yeah actually, there is. I have a favor to ask." He hears a sort of rattle-noise in the background—she’s opened a drawer. Now Greg knows she's in the kitchen to make dinner. He wonders what it'll be. He and Wilson will be doing Indian takeout from Patel's, his _vindaloo_ and _pakora_ tank is way too low. "You remember the project I showed you this morning?"

"Since my I.Q. hasn't dropped a hundred points since then, _yeah_ ," he says with considerable sarcasm.

"Just making sure you were paying attention when we talked," she says, unruffled by his poke at her. "I'd like you to help me with it."

He is a bit taken aback. "You didn't say anything earlier," he says at last.

"I wanted to see your reaction first," Sarah says. "If you weren't interested I'd just work on it myself. You want in?"

"I’d better get something out of this or it’s a waste of my time.”

"Fifty-fifty split. We share the result."

He's already made up his mind to take it but decides to make her wait. "I'll tell you when we come up this weekend."

"Fair enough." Sarah sounds cheerful, which just confirms his suspicions. This is a test—the first of many, if he’s extrapolated her method correctly.

"You really think you'll get me to spill my guts, working together? Pretty lame." He takes another swallow.

"I need some help. You need something to do. If you wanna talk, you talk," she says. He hears the oven door open. "That's the top and bottom of my sinister plan, mwahaha."

"It won't work," he says.

"How about trying it first before you give up, Eeyore? Dinner's ready, I have to go." He can hear the smile in her voice now. "Call anytime. Give my love to Jim." And she's gone.

Later that night, as he lies in the darkness of his room and attempts to find some sleep, he wonders (not for the first time) if any of this will make a difference. Maybe he really is just running from one place to another in a futile attempt to escape whatever chases him. Maybe he will hurt Sarah again, though he doesn't want to. Maybe this is a gigantic mistake and he'll never return to medicine. That final thought should terrify him. All it does is leave him empty. And that is the worst realization of all. The strong framework of logic and reason, the only home he's ever really cared about, has been denied him. There is nothing left but to breach the barricades that keep him in icy nothingness. It's a flawed plan filled with pitfalls and pain, but it's the best one he's got, and he has to make it work. _I choose to make it work_ , he thinks, and hopes that will be sufficient.

After a long and restless night, he finally pries himself out of bed and limps down the hall to the bathroom. It’s mid-morning and he hurts so much he knows he needs a long soak in the tub.

Half an hour later he’s just about to lower his tender backside into steaming water when the damn phone rings. He stands there for a moment, torn between the need for pain relief and the possible importance of the call—it might be one of the Goldmans, or maybe even both. Finally he stumps out to the living room, and shivers as the cool room air chills his skin. When he checks the caller ID, he groans just as the voicemail comes on.

“Sorry, wrong number. Don’t leave a message.” The beep sounds.

“HOUSE! Answer the damn phone, I know you’re there!” Cuddy sounds like she’s ready to explode. That’s understandable, he hasn’t communicated directly with her since his stay in the hospital. She’s left messages and emails, sent a letter on official PPTH stationery, even stopped by. He’d heard her knock on the door; she’d stuck with it for a good fifteen minutes before she left, and even then she’d peered into the windows, her hand over her eyes to suss out the beast in his lair. “If you don’t answer, you’re fired! I mean it!”

The massive illogic of this ultimatum is too much to resist. He puts the phone on speaker. “So you’re gonna fire me before you fire me. Officially, that is.”

There’s a moment’s silence, then a sigh. “House . . . for god’s sake. At least you’re alive. Where the _hell_ have you been? You were supposed to come back to work last month!”

He quirks an eyebrow. “So this isn’t an official eviction. Good to know.”

“Don’t hang up, dammit! I want you in this office—“

“You can’t have me, I’m saving myself.”

“—tomorrow morning or there will be hell to pay, do I make myself understood?”

“There’s no point,” he says. His tone is harsh now. “No license, if you remember. No tickee, no shirtee.”

“That’s—incredibly racist,” Cuddy says. “You can consult until you get reinstated. That will give me a good reason to get the department funded again.”

“I’d bet anything Foreman’s not a fan of that plan.”

“Foreman doesn’t make decisions about Diagnostics, I do.” Now she sounds offended.

“Fine. Here’s my decision. I’m on extended sabbatical.” He’s been headed for this point since he went into Mayfield. He might never go back to Princeton-Plainsboro now.

“House, you’ve been out since the end of May. We’re past Christmas now. How long do you intend to leave your department without anyone to run it?”

“Dramatic license. Nice to know Deans of Medicine use it too.” Greg takes a breath. “I’m gone as long as it takes. Do what you want with that. My shrink will call with details. Until then, I’m a feather in the wind. Byeee.”

“House—“ He cuts her off and unplugs the phone, stands there. Now it’s done, and he’s probably out of a job. Well, it isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last, more than likely. He shivers a little and limps slowly to the bathroom, where he closes the door on the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon as well.


	11. Chapter 11

_December 29th_

Even during the holidays, certain mundane rituals must be observed. Cuddy's lunch date with Wilson was an excellent example. Tuesday afternoon found them at one of the better restaurants just outside of town. Ostensibly it was in celebration of the coming New Year, but Cuddy suspected the choice also ensured there would be less chance of any hospital staff around to eavesdrop on their conversation. Well into the first course, with general pleasantries exchanged, they moved on to the real reason why they were there: to share information and gossip, mainly about House.

"So, how's he doing?" Cuddy kept her recent phone call to herself. She stirred her soup and sprinkled a bit of freshly-grated black pepper into it.

"My Hannukah was great, thanks for asking," Wilson said, and gave her an amused look. “Won plenty of _gelt_ at pinochle and ate way too many latkes.”

Cuddy regarded him wryly. "You both spent the weekend at Doctor Goldman's place in New York for Christmas, didn't you?" She sipped a spoonful of _minestrone_ , more from a need to do something than from any real desire to eat.

"Yes." Wilson seasoned his salad. "House is . . . House. You know how he is about holidays."

"I'm asking about the bigger picture," Cuddy said. She’d have to be careful here; Wilson was nearly as good as House at recognition of fishing expeditions. "Is he any closer to getting his license back?"

"As of this moment . . . no," Wilson said with some reluctance. "Not really."

Cuddy's reply was forestalled by the return of their server, who offered fresh coffee. When they were alone once more she spoke. "It's been seven months. At the last fiscal review I couldn't justify keeping Diagnostics in the budget, even minimally, if there wasn't some hope that the head of the department would be able to return soon." She sighed a little but underplayed it—less was more in this case. "I've already made arrangements to farm out those of the team who stayed on, in case we're able to put everything together again. That's the best I can do."

“What happens if House comes back?” Wilson gave her a keen look. “You’re saying he’d have to go with you to the board to get the department set up again? That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“It’s more likely Foreman would take over as head and House would consult—“ She stopped as Wilson shook his head.

“No way. He won’t go for that and you know it. Diagnostics is his department, and his alone. He has a team because he needs other points of view, but that’s the end of their usefulness unless they can make good coffee or answer his mail. He’s the one who runs it and that’s that.”

“Then he should get his ass back to work and take care of his damn department!” Cuddy snapped. “I’ve done all I can do!”

"Of course," Wilson said. "House is trying to get some help. Maybe this time he'll find it. Sarah's willing to give him every chance."

"He got her fired and she's still working with him?" Cuddy said. She was astonished the woman was willing to try again. "Is she up for sainthood or something?"

"Let's just say no one has out-stubborned Doctor Goldman in a very long time, if ever," Wilson said. A slight smile tugged at his mouth. "She's more than equal to the task."

"Better her than me," Cuddy said, but Wilson apparently sensed the disquiet in her reply. He didn't push however, only said

“You said ‘those of the team who stayed on’. Someone’s decided to leave?”

Cuddy stirred her soup. “Cameron. She and Chase are splitting up.”

Wilson took a forkful of salad. “There’s a shocking development.”

“Don’t be cynical,” she said. “It’s sad.”

“It’s predictable. Office romances usually end up in trouble.” He kept his gaze away from hers, but Cuddy heard his thoughts loud and clear. She felt a flash of resentment at his hypocrisy and arrogance. He’d dated and moved in with Amber, and that was just one example from his checkered history. “How’s Chase taking it?”

She shrugged. “He’s moved on, or at least that’s what he says. Claussen’s picked him as a team member for routine surgeries, with a chance to move up if he proves himself. Chase is a decent surgeon, he should be comfortable there at least.”

“Of course.” Wilson munched some salad. "So how are things with you and Lucas?"

"You say that like you're hoping we've broken up. It's only been a short time since he moved in," Cuddy said, and regretted her sharp tone when Wilson looked wounded.

"Hey, I was just trying to be polite."

She tasted her tepid soup. "Thus proving my observation is accurate. You're never polite unless you have something to hide." She hesitated. This was dangerous ground; she’d have to be careful. She kept her tone neutral as she continued. "Have you said anything to House about Lucas?"

Wilson's dark eyes widened. "Of course not! Are you nuts?" He watched her closely. "You didn't answer my question."

Cuddy felt a blush heat her cheeks. "We're fine."

"Uh huh." Wilson sounded skeptical but didn't pursue the subject. Any further conversation was forestalled by the return of the server with the entrees.

"We _are_ ," Cuddy said after the woman left. She took a mouthful of the mushroom  _risotto_ she’d ordered and savored the creamy taste before she went on. "Lucas is wonderful with Rachel, and she really likes him. I’ve wanted to have a positive father figure in the household and Lucas is an excellent choice."

"How about you? What do you need?" Wilson's voice was gentle.

"We're fine," she said again. "I know you don't really like him, but he's a good ki—man," she amended with some haste. "He treats me with respect. We're happy together."

“I’m not hearing the L word,” Wilson said. “Not that L word, the other one.”

Cuddy snorted. “Love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We’ve both been honest about the fact that we don’t feel romantic love for each other, but there’s—affection, and as I said, respect.”

"I see. What are you going to do when House finds out?"

"You mean, am I ready to batten down the hatches and prepare for battle?" Cuddy shook her head. "It doesn't have to come to that." She ate another bite of _risotto_.

"But it will." Wilson gave her a sympathetic look and took a forkful of baked salmon. "This is _House_ we're talking about, Lisa. He may not claim you for himself, but he'll make damn sure no one else gets you."

Cuddy swallowed on a dry throat. She hadn't allowed that particular truth to bother her too much, since the source of the problem was far away. Now Wilson had brought it home, literally.

“You . . . you really think he’ll . . .?” At Wilson’s wry look her heart sank. "How the hell did I get this high honor?" She propped her forehead on her fist and looked down at her plate, too anxious now to even pretend to eat.

"You didn't exactly discourage him," Wilson said dryly. "All those years of tight skirts, pushup bras and flirting took their toll."

Cuddy brought her fist down beside the plate with a discreet thump. “So it’s _my_ fault?” At Wilson’s amused expression she felt her temper rise. "I will _not_ accept the blame for his behavior! He's obsessive by nature. Anyway, this doesn't have anything to do with me personally. I'm just part of some . . . some fantasy he's got playing in his head. The love of a good woman, blah blah."

"You're right about the obsessive part, but you're totally wrong about this not being personal." Wilson sipped his Pellegrino. "It's as personal as it gets."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" she said, wary of a trap. “You think he—he truly does love me or something? I didn’t think he was capable of that at all. He’s never . . . never shown it. Not even with Stacy.” She couldn’t keep the edge of bitterness from her words.

"I know how to read the signs with him. He does love you in his own way. The fact that he's a neurotic narcissist with enough addictions to fill a halfway house is beside the point," Wilson said dryly.

Cuddy drew in a breath, appalled at the magnitude of the problem now that she'd had her nose rubbed in it. "Oh, _god_ ," she groaned. "He'll find out and kill Lucas."

Wilson shook his head. "No, he'll try to break you up." He hesitated. "Are you sure you don't want him to?"

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" Cuddy glared at him.

"I think you're still . . ." Wilson paused again, "interested."

"I am _not_! I'm done with him! Enough is enough!" She fought to keep her voice down. "Whatever it is that passes for love in that warped head of House’s, he's made it very clear he doesn't want any kind of—of settled relationship with me. He left me behind in college, for god's sake!" She still felt the pain of that rejection deep within though she'd never told anyone, not even Wilson. "But it was this last round of craziness with the little girl at the shopping center that opened my eyes to how things are—how impossible . . ." Her voice trailed off for a moment. Then she gathered her thoughts. "So I—walked away."

"Um . . . _yeah_ ," Wilson said, clearly unconvinced. "And yet you're still trying to find a way to keep him on as head of Diagnostics."

"That's different." Even to her ears she didn't sound convincing. "He's a valuable employee."

"One who's cost the hospital enormous amounts of money time and again in lawsuits, damages and general chaos," Wilson pointed out with annoying truthfulness. "You'd never do this for anyone else."

"I'd do it for you," she said, and forced a smile.

"You say that knowing full well I'm a good risk. And you don’t have an on-again, off-again thing for me the way you do for House." Wilson gave her a direct look. "If you're really trying to convince yourself you're done with him, you need to find a better argument before he starts wreaking havoc."

Later, in between phone calls, masses of paperwork and visits from prospective donors, she considered Wilson's words. Protest as she might, she knew he was right on all points.

 _I let Lucas into my life because I'm genuinely attracted to him, but also because he knows how to deal with problem situations,_ she thought. _Am I a selfish cow for thinking of my own protection first?_ She sighed and rubbed her forehead. _Probably. But I have to do what I can . . . People depend on me. Rachel's at the top of that list. The hospital's second._ On the heels of her last thought she realized that Lucas didn't even rate a consideration. She slammed her palm down on the desktop in frustration. When the hell was she going to push House out of her heart once and for all? How much more evidence did she need that he'd already done the same himself years ago, if she’d even been there in the first place?

"Doctor Cuddy?" Her assistant hovered in the doorway. He looked worried. "The Moyers are here. You did say you could see them . . .?"

Cuddy straightened and set her anger aside. "Send them in," she said, her tone brisk. As the door opened she stood and assumed a welcoming smile. _I'll deal with all this later,_ she thought, and went about the everyday business of keeping her hospital solvent.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**_Well the deputy walks on hard nails, and the preacher rides a mount;_ **

**_but nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts,_ **

**_and the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn;_ **

**_"Come in," she said, "I'll give you_ **

**_shelter from the storm."_ **

_December 31st_

Winter's early darkness has long since fallen by the time they enter the long driveway to the Goldmans place. Greg watches the house draw closer and feels an odd sense of something like anxiety and anticipation, all mixed up together. He's not really sure where those feelings come from, and he doesn't want to examine them too closely anyway, so he does his best to ignore them. He’ll be forced to look at his thoughts and feelings in-depth soon enough anyway, no need to jump-start proceedings.

Sarah opens the door as they pull up to the front step. Golden porch light spills out all around her. "Excellent, you made it ahead of the storm!" she says as they come up the walk. She takes the bags from Wilson's hands and gives him a quick hug while she offers Greg a warm smile. "We'll bring in the rest of this later. Supper's ready, you two must be famished."

The kitchen is fragrant with the smell of fresh pizza. There are also two cakes placed on the dining room table, both luscious confections. House stares first at them, then in sudden and unwelcome comprehension at Sarah.

"Yes, I know it's your birthday," she says with a smile. "Come on, son. Can't pass up an officially sanctioned chance to eat cake. Maybe even some ice cream too, if you like."

He does not want this. He hasn't celebrated or even acknowledged his birthday in years. He loathes the whole party hat/blowing out candles/song-singing/falsely joyous ritual that everyone insists on. He refuses to act happy about a custom that only reminds him of a year spent in pain.

"Hey," Sarah says softly. He snaps out of what feels like the start of panic to find she watches him, her expression serious now. "It's just dessert. No little hats or candles. We won't even sing the song, promise." There is quiet compassion in her gaze. He looks away, embarrassed by his reaction.

After a few minutes of amiable confusion they settle in around the table with pizza and cold Yuengling beer, with a ginger beer for Sarah. The kitchen radio is tuned to a classic rock station. "I can't take credit for making this," Sarah says when Wilson compliments her on the pizza. "I got them from Lou's. You know, the Italian place in town where everyone goes after games. Best restaurant in the area." She sips her ginger beer.

"Who baked the cakes?" Greg asks. She smiles at him.

"Now those I can claim, for better or worse. I wasn't sure what kind you liked, so I made chocolate macaroon and my grandma's red velvet cake."

"I haven't ever heard of either one." Wilson gives her a puzzled look. Sarah rolls her eyes.

"Yankees. Y'all don't know good eats."

"I know what red velvet is," Greg says. He has a hazy memory of being given a slice at someone's home in Texas—probably Fort Hood, though he can't be sure. He couldn't have been more than three or four years old at the time. "It has buttermilk in it." The tangy-sweet taste comes back to him in a vague sort of way.

"Yes indeed." Sarah's eyes gleam with amusement. "To be honest I made that one for Gene too, it's a favorite of his. If you don't like either cake we can skip 'em, it's all good." She stretches a little, clearly unconcerned about his decision. "I bought some other stuff for New Year's, so if we don't have a treat now we'll have something later on. There's a _Thin Man_ marathon on TCM, if you're interested in watchin’ it with me."

That tight clench deep in Greg's gut slowly eases. She really won’t make a big deal out of his birthday. He finishes his beer and reaches for another slice of pizza. It truly is excellent—chewy dough brushed with a little salt and redolent of olive oil and a hint of parmesan, plenty of spicy sauce that isn’t sweet but tastes of home-cooked tomatoes, thick slices of pepperoni with spots of black pepper in them, browned chunks of hot Italian sausage, baby portobello mushroom slices, mozzarella and asiago cheeses with fresh basil, oregano and garlic mixed in. His mouth waters even as he takes another enormous bite.

"Where’s Gene?" Wilson asks. "Doesn't the man ever have days off?"

"He's upstairs crashed out," Sarah says. "He spent the whole night in Detroit waiting for a flight to open up. He'll be down later, more than likely."

Greg watches her out of the corner of his eye. There is no trace of the anguished, grief-stricken woman he left a few days previous. She looks as if she hasn't a care in the world. And yet he doesn't sense that she's in denial or trying to hide her feelings. Her body language is open, her gaze untroubled, her speech sparked with the humor he's come to expect from her. He wonders how she lives with what she knows, the burden of her past and all the nightmares it must spawn in the small hours of the night and at odd moments. Some part of him wants to ask her how she does it. Instead he takes another huge bite of pizza and tunes back into the conversation.

" --staying?" Sarah says. Wilson puts down his beer.

"Just till Saturday. I have a patient . . ." He falls silent.

"He's got an old guy who's hanging on by his fingernails through stage four lung cancer," Greg says around a mouthful of food. "So of course Wilson has to be there when the loser kicks the bucket."

"Why do you always imply I'm a wack job for caring about my patients?" Wilson snaps. "This man needs me--"

"He's _dead_ ," Greg says, and chews noisily.

"He's still breathing, so he's still my concern." Wilson sets down his beer. He glares at Greg. "Don't—don't push, okay? Just don't."

"The fact that his body hasn't caught on yet that he's joined the choir invisible isn't your problem."

"Stop," Sarah says quietly. Greg ignores her.

"Just because you never show up for your patients doesn't make you a role model for anyone except other antisocial jerks," Wilson says hotly.

Greg rolls his eyes. "You really think that your presence will prevent that old fart's suffering? He's so gorked on morphine he doesn't even—"

"I'm going to be there whether you approve—"

"It's nothing but Jewish guilt for not creating a miracle—"

" _ENOUGH_." Sarah's voice shocks them both into silence. It is not loud but it fills the room all the same. "This subject is now closed, do I make myself clear?"

"It's a free country," Wilson says under his breath.

"Not in my kitchen it isn't." She folds her arms. "You want to carry on, go outside. Grab some firewood and slug each other's brains out while you're at it. I will not allow fighting, arguments or even teensy little attempts to bicker at my table. _Ever_. Understood?"

"Jeez, _Mom_ ," Greg says. Wilson nods once and won't look at either of them.

"Good," Sarah says. She gets up to take her empty bottle and plate to the sink. "Holy crow, you guys. Ever consider marriage counseling?" She shakes her head as she rinses out the bottle. "Chuckleheads."

"I am not a chucklehead," Wilson says with some dignity. "Never was, never will be."

"That's because you're really a wanker," Greg mutters.

"Asshat," Wilson throws at him.

"Doormat!"

"Dickwad!"

Sarah spins around. She has a damp tea towel in her hands. She twists it into a long rope; without a word she pops Wilson on the ass. Even as Greg bursts out in a laugh she gets him too. She is really good at towel snaps—it _hurts_.

"Knock it off!" She means it. Greg dares to give Wilson a sidelong look. Sarah nails him again.

" _Hey!_ " He rubs his tingling backside as annoyance struggles with amusement. "Guy already in pain here! I didn’t--"

"Instigating. Look it up in the dictionary sometime, your picture's there." She holds the towel at the ready. Greg keeps a wary eye on her. Wilson does the same. "Anyone else care to comment?" Sarah asks with deceptive mildness. No one dares to say a word. "Good. Cake is now being served. Both of you sit tight and shut up or we'll have another session with mister towel." Now that she’s laid down the law, Sarah pulls a wicked-sharp knife out of the utensil drawer. Greg almost bites off his tongue to hold in the smartass remark he wants to give her.

"What kind of cake do you want?" she asks with her back to him, her tone stern.

"Red velvet," he says quickly.

"What about you?" she addresses Wilson.

"Uh—chocolate please," he mutters.

Soon enough she slaps a plate loaded with cake in front of Greg and hands him a fork. He carves out a bite, takes a cautious taste. The memory of that sweet tang returns full force, backed with the smooth, rich silk of homemade buttercream frosting. It's absolutely delicious, and the best birthday cake he's ever had—which doesn’t say much as he's only been given a few over the years, but still, this one gets top rank.

"What's in this?" Wilson asks. "Did you put coconut in the cake too?"

"Nope," Sarah says. "Secret ingredient. Ask Gene when he comes down, he'll tell you what it is."

As Greg savors the treat, it strikes him that he never saw his mother stand up to discord the way Sarah just has. He and Dad waged many cruel, hate-filled battles in Blythe's presence at the dinner table and anywhere else they chose over the years, and that includes in public. Yet aside from a few ineffective pleas for them to tone things down, his mother hadn't attempted to end those fights.

 _Why didn't she put a stop to them?_ He knows Dad held his knowledge of her affair over her head, but there had to be more to it than just that. He doesn't remember his mother as a particularly timid or fearful woman; he never had the sense that she was scared of his father. It was more she . . . _deferred_ to him. He was the final authority in all matters. Not that there weren't small, hidden moments of rebellion, of silent conspiracy to thwart a particularly nasty punishment, or at least make it less severe; still, Mom didn't help her son if she knew for certain she would be exposed. An unwelcome surge of anger fills him.

"What is it?" Sarah's soft voice brings him back to the moment. He looks for Wilson, but finds they are alone in the kitchen. "Gene came down. They're in the living room setting things up for later." She sits beside him. "Will you tell me what you're thinking?"

To his surprise he hears himself speak. "The way you stood up to us tonight . . . I never realized . . . " He stops. Sarah says nothing, only waits for him to continue.

"Mom never did that," he says. "When Dad disciplined me, when we fought . . . She commiserated sometimes, but only when she wouldn't get in trouble." He winces at how whiny and pathetic that sounds.

"What do you recall?" she asks after a moment. "Can you tell me?"

He doesn't want to remember. There's so much rage and pain, the thought of it unleashed makes him afraid because he's not sure it'll ever stop once it's allowed freedom. He pushes the memories away and shakes his head. The therapy has already begun, whether he likes it or not. The realization frightens him. He’s not ready to do this, but then he never will be.

"Okay," she says. There is that same quiet understanding she showed earlier. "When you're ready, you can talk to me any time about anything." She stands and looks down at him. "I'm headed off to watch movies. Come and join us if you like." She hesitates, then slips through the kitchen doorway in silence. He looks at the half-eaten slice of cake before him. After a moment he takes the plate and fork to the sink, snags a bottle of beer from the fridge, and heads into the living room, where the cheerful sound of talk and laughter mingles with the crackle of the fire.

When Greg arrives it is to find everyone engrossed in the movie. He takes a chair within the circle, but away from the fire so that he is in darkness and the others are illuminated.

"In this particular case I like the films better than the book," Sarah says. She is snuggled against Gene on the couch, wrapped up in a thick cotton throw as she munches popcorn. "I always had the feeling Hammett didn't like his characters, so I didn't either. Chandler's a better writer."

"Let's see . . . bitter bipolar alcoholic hacking out stories to bring in money," Wilson says. "Of course he hated his characters. They were a means to an end, that's all."

"He wasn't bipolar," Sarah says in exasperation.

"Everyone's bipolar," Wilson says. Gene laughs.

"You've got a point."

"Anyway . . ." Sarah throws a popcorn kernel at Wilson. "Powell and Loy have such great chemistry, they make Nick and Nora more likable than Hammett wrote them. And Asta steals every scene he's in."

"Because alcoholics and little yappy dogs are always so entertaining," Wilson says dryly.

"I can remember laughing at you a time or two in college," Sarah says.

"I wasn't an alcoholic!"

"So you were a little yappy dog?" Gene asks, his lean pirate’s face creased in a grin.

"He was both," Sarah teases. Wilson throws the popcorn kernel back at her as Gene laughs.

Greg watches them from the half-darkness. He feels detached, as if he observes a play. The ghosts of his past still haunt him; try as he might, he can't push them away. And it there in the shadows of memory that he comprehends Sarah's strategy. It's so simple he can't believe he didn't see it from the start. He should have; it's a sign of how far he's degenerated mentally, to let an obvious ploy like this one slip right by him. "I get it," he says aloud.

"What?" Wilson looks at him, his expression one of mild confusion.

"I get it," Greg says again. "Staying here is like living at home, only it's the home I never had. Is that how you're planning to pry me open?"

Sarah sits up a bit, away from Gene. "No prying, otherwise yes," she says. Greg pauses, surprised by her candor.

"It won't work," he says.

"It's already started," she says. "Hasn't it?"

"I don't have to stay here," he says.

"You are always free to leave." Sarah faces him directly now. "I won't keep you against your will. It's your choice."

He stares at her and considers his options. "So this is the best you have to offer," he says after a time.

"Yes," she says. There is no sign of impatience or anger, though she has a right to feel both.

After a few moments he gets up and goes to his room. He has to think about this, and for that he needs some privacy.

He finds his things have been piled by the door: clothes, guitar, piano keyboard, games, laptop, the bag of reference books he thought might come in handy. But there is something else—a small package perched on his duffel, with a card. He limps over, moves everything into the room, and sits down.

He checks out the card first. It's humorous without being insulting or twee and it makes him smile a little. Both Sarah and Gene signed it. The package is next. The paper itself is beautiful, the print copied from illuminated pages--the Book of Kells, he's fairly sure. He admires the intricate patterns and bright colors before opening the box. Within is a rough chunk of stone. He picks it up to examine it. It's surprisingly heavy and appears to be crystalline, with three-sided forms layered in rows throughout. The bottom layer next to the matrix is pale purple and there are hints of green in the translucent top half.

"Fluorite," he says aloud. There is no mistaking the structure. As he starts to put it back he sees a note tucked in the box. He takes out the paper, unfolds it.

_When you seek logic and reason, look here._

The penmanship is in Sarah’s small, neat hand. After a few moments he sets the stone aside and opens his duffel. There's a pair of thick socks folded together in a ball, tucked deep in a corner under some tee shirts. He pulls them out and feels for the oblong lump he knows is there. This is the last remnant of his massive Vicodin stash. He stuffed the bottle with cotton to keep the pills from rattling. Wilson did a good job with the apartment, but there were places where only an experienced addict would think to look, and one of them still held a month's supply. Greg knows it is total idiocy to have this with him; he should give the pills to Sarah and be done with this final piece of his old life. But he also knows pain is on the way, so much pain he's not sure he'll survive it. At least with this pitiful handful of pills he's got a fallback plan, something to keep him numb, if only for a few hours. He can't give them up, not yet.

 _Not ever_ , that little voice deep inside says.

"We'll see," he says aloud, and puts the socks back in his duffel.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Well I'm living in a foreign country, but I'm bound to cross the line._ **

**_Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine._ **

**_If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born . . ._ **

**" _Come in," she said, "I'll give you_**

**_shelter from the storm."_ **

_January 1st_

Sarah opens the battered wooden door with a flourish. "New year, new project, and here's hoping we get a working office out of it," she says. "So tell me what needs to be done."

Greg peers into the room. It was once a pantry, or a milking parlor, or where they killed the chickens for all he knows. It doesn't look any better now than it did earlier in the week, though the walls have been painted and the floor refinished, both tasks probably accomplished in warmer weather.

"It's freezing in here," he says.

"We've got a heat source." Sarah points to it, a small black franklin stove. It perches atop a brick hearth. "I had Mona's husband check everything when he swept the chimneys in October. He says the stove is fine. He replaced the pipe and repaired the connection in the wall. All we need to do is bring in some kindling and get a fire started, it'll warm up fast enough. I've got an extra ash bucket around somewhere. I’ll bring in a tea kettle too, for a humidifier." She glances at him and smiles a little. "What else?"

"We need desks. Can we even fit two in here?" He glares at her. "And chairs. I'm not sharing."

"If we put 'em back to back . . ." Sarah tilts her head and considers the problem. "We could have floor to ceiling shelves up on the north wall and split the space. That would give us more breathing room. And they’d insulate against the cold a bit too."

"Electricity," he says. Though he'd never admit it, he's begun to see the potential. "There are no outlets."

"Yeah, well, I tried to get my electrician set up to do the wiring, but she's working on Emil's barn and that'll take a month or so." Sarah shrugs a little. "We can use a power strip for now. We're both on laptops anyway at the moment, so it won't be a problem."

"A woman electrician?" He says it just to get her pissed off.

"Yeah, imagine that," Sarah says dryly. "A female who knows all about wiring houses, amazing. Dancing backwards in high heels isn't enough of an accomplishment, women want more? Unbelievable."

"She's probably three hundred pounds with a bleach-blonde crew cut and tatts on her tits," he says. Sarah snorts with amusement.

"Have to tell her that the next time I see her. So what's next on the list?"

"We'll need to buy furniture somewhere up here in the boondocks. I'm presuming no one in their right mind will deliver to this backwater in winter," he says. "I haven't seen any office supply stores in town either."

"That's the fun part," Sarah says. "We don't have to buy new. We can check out the estate sales at the auction house. They have them every weekend. Just about all the stuff we have here came from the sales. And a few dumpsters here and there. Anything we find we can bring back with Minnie Lou's help."

"You are a total trash picker," he says, and she laughs. The sweet sound fills the empty room.

"You make that sound like a bad thing!" She folds her arms and tips her head back to look at him. It is a conspirator's gesture, and if he didn't know better he'd say it was carefully calculated to draw him in. "So, you wanna do this?"

It's a big temptation, even though he knows she'll use the project to work on him. He's put together households before, decorated rooms, even done some simple renovation. This is different though. He can't put a finger on why it is, but it is. He wants to do it. "Yeah," he says. Sarah nods.

"Okay," she says. To his surprise she extends her hand. He looks down at it, confused and wary, and says nothing.

"Oh yeah." She takes her hand back, spits in her palm, then offers it again. "Deal," she says. Greg regards her for a moment. Then he spits in his hand and takes hers. They give a solemn shake.

"Deal," he says. "But I get dibs on the best spot for my desk. And a bottle of rubbing alcohol to get rid of the girl cooties you just gave me."

"Uh _uh_." Sarah regards him with scorn, her sea-green eyes bright with humor. "Everybody knows if you want to get rid of girl cooties you burn her favorite dolls. That's why I never had any."

"Cooties or dolls?" Greg asks. Sarah rolls her eyes at him.

"All kids have cooties. It's a federal law or something."

He swallows a laugh. "So you didn't have dolls. Why, because some nasty little yard ape had a wienie roast with Chatty Cathy and Raggedy Ann as special guests?"

"Because I wanted boys to know they couldn't mess with me. They didn't have any way to get revenge, but I did." She's only half-serious, he can tell.

"Man, you lived in a tough neighborhood," he says, and winces at his _faux pas_. Even from the toned-down entries in her journal he knows she was forced to reside in a house filled with pain, neglect and days of pure terror. The way she handled the kids on her block was probably every bit as bad as what she dealt with at home.

"Better believe it," Sarah says. "I learned at an early age how to get rid of boy cooties. You steal the wheels off the guy's bike and hang 'em in a tree. It always looked like Christmastime in our yard with all the ornaments on our windbreak pines." She gives him a smartass grin. "Rest up tonight, we've got work to do starting tomorrow."

"I denounce you, Desecrator of Bicycles!" he yells after her as she heads into the kitchen, and she laughs again in genuine amusement. Once she is gone Greg leans against the doorjamb and gives the room another look. This is going to be a _lot_ of work. He isn't sure he can do much; his ruined leg makes it difficult if not impossible to get up and down without spasms, and when he's on his feet for long periods of time he hurts like hell. He can only lift the lightest pieces of furniture, and even then he can't go too far without a loss of balance. Still, he wants to do this. It means . . . something, he isn't sure what just yet.

After a moment Greg pulls the door shut and goes off to crash on the couch. Wilson will be back from town shortly to start the living room tailgate party he's planned as a thank-you gesture to Gene and Sarah. Until then, there's time to find a bit of oblivion and rest up for what lies ahead.


End file.
